




\ 










: 


Paul Redding 

A TALE 


O F 


TI1E BRANDYWINE. 


BY T. B. READ. 


SECOND EDITION. 


NEW YORK: 

E. FERRETT & CO., 237 BROADWAY. 

PHILADELPHIA ? 68 SOUTH FOURTH ST- 

1 8 45. 


£c ZF’Price Twenty Five Cents . 



MUSIC FOR THE MILLION. 


E. FERRETT & CO. 


237 BROADWAY, NEW YORK, AND 68 SOUTH FOURTH 


STREET, PHILADELPHIA, 


25 cents. 


25 


12 1-2 


25 


Would call the attention of the trade, and the musical 
public generally, to the fact, that they have commenced 
the publication of elegantly printed and correctly ar- 
ranged Music, at about one fourth the usual price. It 
is to be found in the periodical stores throughout the 
United States. This Music is equal, if not superior, in 
appearance to any that is published. They have al- 
ready issued, in neat and tasteful-colored covers — 
Music from the Bohemian Girl, Part I, six 
Songs and three Pieces, 

Music from the Bohemian Girl, Part II, five 
Songs, Duett and Chorus, 

Gems from the Bohemian Girl, seven favorite 
Airs arranged for the Piano Forte, - 
Beauties of La Norma, seven fayorite Airs 
arranged for the Piano, 

Music of the Ethiopian Serenaders, nine 
Songs and a Set of Cotillons, 

Eleven of Lover’s Songs, 

Nine favorite Polkas, - 
Melodies of Ireland. Eight Songs and five 
Pieces, • 

Moore’s Melodies, No. I. Containing eight 
of Thomas Moore’s Songs and Ballads, 

Thirteen Popular Waltzes. By various com- 
posers, - 

Selections from Fry’s Grand Opera of 4 Leo- 
nora’ — three Songs, 

Fourteen celebrated Marches, 

Twelve Popular Quicksteps, 

Fourteen favorite Galopades, 

The trade supplied on liberal terms from the follow- 
ing points : At our Store, No. 237 Broadway , New 
York; or at our Store No. 68 South Fourth Street , 
Philadelphia . Also, by J. C , Morgan , Exchange Place , 
New Orleans, and by C. W. Ramsdale, Cincinnati . 

E. FERRETT & Co. 


25 

25 

12 1-2 


25 


25 


25 


25 

25 

25 

25 


$aui &et)tiing 




THE BRANDYWINE, 


BY T. B. READ. 


SECOND EDITION. 



NEW YORK: 

E. FERRETT & CO. 237 BROADWAY. 

PHILADELPHIA : 68 SOUTH FOURTH STREET. 

1845 . 

[ Copy Right secured according to Law. ] 









* 




©eirication. 


TO 

NICHOLAS LONGWORTH, Esq., 

OF CINCINNATI, 

M, IFELMSEflD) ©if 

®l)is &aU 

IS MOST RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, 

BY 


THE AUTHOR 






















\ 
































N 






preface. 


Not mine the measured tread of solemn marches, 
When sable weeds float plume-like on the air ; 

Nor stately step beneath triumphal arches, 

When conq’ring heroes flowery chaplets wear. 

Not of the days of armor, shields, and lances, 

When monarchs bade the tournament begin ; 

When woman’s presence made uncertain chances 
More fatal still amid the clashing din; — 

When flowed the tide of war with purpose holy, 
And spread its waves of blood o’er Palestine ; 

And when, to expiate some sin or folly, 

The weary pilgrim sought the distant shrine. 

Not from those days, so olden and romantic, 

My humble wand would raise the scene sublime ; 

A mightier voice hath called from graves gigantic 
The stalwart champions of that iron time. 

Nor have I sat amid those lofty towers 

Where Speculation broods with visage pale ; 

Nor walked with impious feet Love’s sacred bowers, 
To tell once more an oft-repeated tale ; — 

No individual wrongs have deigned to borrow, 

To swell the story; nor disturbed the dead; 

But through the changing paths of joy and sorrow, 
Have followed where Imagination led. 




































I 





























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PAUL REDDING. 


CHAPTER I. 


“ Though truly some there are 
Whose footsteps superstitiously avoid 
This venerable tree; for when the wind 
Blows keenly, it sends forth a creaking sound 
(Above the general roar of woods and crags) 

Distinctly heard from far — a doleful note ! 

As if (so Grecian shepherds would have deemed,) 

The Hamadryad, pent within; bewailed 
Some bitter wrong. Nor is it unbelieved, 

By ruder fancy, that a troubled ghost 

Haunts this old trunk ; lamenting deeds of which 

The flowery ground is conscious.” 

Wordsworth. 


The Brandywine river may be observed, at one 
time, winding slowly, in its silvery silence, through 
richly-pastured farms ; or running broad and rip- 
pling over its beautiful bed of pearly shells and 
golden pebbles, (with which it toys and sings as 
merrily as an innocent-hearted child,) until its 
waters contract and roll heavily and darkly beneath 
the grove of giant oaks, elms and sycamores ; but 
soon, like the sullen flow of a dark heart, it breaks 
angrily over the first obstruction. Thus you may 
1 


10 


PAUL REDDING. 


see the Brandywine, at one point, boiling savagely 
over a broken bed of rocks, until its thick sheets of 
foam slide, like an avalanche of snow, into a deep 
pool, where it sends up a whispering voice, like 
that which pervades a rustling audience when the 
drop-curtain has shed its folds upon a scene that, 
like the “ Ancient Mariner,” has held each ear and 
eye as with a magic spell. 

This place is bound in, on either side, by an 
almost perpendicular precipice of dark rocks ; at 
the top of which, among the crevices, grow a few 
small cedars ; but farther back, as the soil increases 
in depth, the trees are larger, and form, upon that 
eminence, a beautiful grove, where the twilight, 
even at high noon, is held a delicious captive. 
From the limbs of the largest elms hang long 
waving vines, wrought, as you might think, into the 
fantastic splendors of the richest pile of ornamental 
Gothic, and 

“ ’Neath cloistered boughs each floral bell that swingeth, 

And tolls its perfume on the passing air, 

Makes Sabbath in the fields, and ever ringeth 
A call to prayer ! ” 

Those natural arbors are entirely devoid of under- 
brush, and so perfectly carpeted with that evergreen 
moss, that bends and rises elastic as you step, you 
could not but imagine that there Titania held her 
moonlit revelries ! and the voice of the waters, 
borne on the air down through the chasm, when 
softened by the distance into music, seemed, indeed, 


PAUL REDDING. 


11 


to be a melody furnished by invisible musicians 
whilst nature held high festival. 

It was to this place, one sunny afternoon in 
September, that a pedestrian was attracted, by the 
richness of the scene, from the main road th^it 
wound around the side of the hill. He was not 
more than eighteen years of age, and of a slender 
constitution. For awhile his nervous dark eye 
wandered from object to object ; he saw the wild 
fish-hawk circling high in heaven, and watched it 
until at last it struck downwards at an acute angle 
and disappeared beneath the waters ; the youth 
gazed at the spot until he beheld the bird rise again 
and dash the flashing spray from his dusky wings. 
It is a strange sensation to stand, as it were, a 
sentinel on one of nature’s own embattlements ; — 
to be the only human creature for the time that is 
gazing on a scene of startling grandeur, — to be in 
that situation when with one step we might plunge 
our bodies into an eternal oblivion, where man 
might never after dream of our destination ! How 
strange, too, is that dreadful impulse, which strives 
in some under such circumstances, to gain the 
ascendency over reason, and to draw them on to 
fatal consequences ! Such was the giddy feeling 
with which the youth started back from the edge of 
the precipice, almost trembling to think that one 
moment more might have been too late ! Let not 
this be thought an evidence of cowardice ; but 
rather the effect of a most nervous imagination ever 


12 


PAUL REDDING. 


on the stretch and cultivated far beyond the other 
faculties of the mind. Paul Redding, for such was 
the name of the young man, hurried away from 
the scene, feeling a pressure upon his brain, for the 
moment, almost intolerable ; and emerging into the 
calm recesses of the grove, threw himself upon a 
mossy mound. The loveliness of the place soon 
stole upon his senses. Little flowers were smiling 
beside him; squirrels were leaping from limb to 
limb, as fearlessly as though man were the usual 
inhabitant of the scene ; and Paul’s imagination 
once more freely played with the beautiful things 
about him. His fancy whispered that perchance 
some brave Indian chieftain slept beneath that old 
oak, that reared its head so majestically to heaven, 
a monument raised by pitying nature over her 
warrior son. And he could not but sigh to think 
that some gentle maid might be there, even beneath 
the very mound on which he rested, without a line 
or mark to tell where rests the innocent ; yet could 
he read a divine epitaph written with modest violets 
upon a mossy tablet; — yes, an epitaph that nature 
each year will renew, even when the mightiest 
monuments have ceased to tell their tales.! As 
Paul beheld the slanting bars of sunlight, that 
pierced through the deep retreat, he was reminded 
of the distance which he had yet to go, and turning 
from the grove he pursued his way for a moment ; 
but the magic spirit of the place had thrown, as it 
were, its flowery fetters about his feet, and he 


PAUL REDDING. 


13 


could not tear himself away. As he stood wrapped 
in the hazy mantle, that the scene around and his 
fancy had woven about him, he thought that those 
grand old trees seemed with their broad brazen 
faces to smile upon their smaller mates, while the 
latter, covered with moving vines, appeared like 
joyous maidens weaving garlands for their grim 
lovers. But alas, 

“ — The Dryad days were brief, 

Whereof the poets talk, 

When that, which breathes within the leaf, 

Could slip its bark and walk.” 

This scene induced Paul to strive and transcribe it 
to paper. He sat down upon a stone, at a little 
distance, beside an old apple-tree, whose blasted 
trunk leant over almost to the earth. The youth 
wondered how long it had been since that antiquated 
fruit-bearer had been planted there. He saw down 
by the road-side a large dilapidated square stone 
building ; but the great number of fruit-trees in the 
vicinity of the house seemed to bear no fellowship 
with this. Around him were the marks of old ex- 
cavations, with long grass growing over the stones 
that filled them. Over one of these places evidently 
had stood a house, that day after day had thrown 
a time-marking shadow across the hill. Substance 
and shadow, thought the youth, where are they ? 
The storms of many years have beaten one into 
the earth, and the sun has picked up the other! 
Those depressions in the sod seemed, indeed, like 


14 


PAUL REDDING. 


the footprints of a past generation. How long, 
sighed Paul, has it been since happy, fair-haired 
children played at the door of this lost dwelling ? 
or gathered the ruddy-cheeked apples from this 
tree, their own faces as beautiful and glowing ? 
Where are they now ? Time has pressed his 
finger upon the cheeks of some, leaving an indel- 
ible print, while he now stands with green sandals 
on the graves of others. In the midst of this 
meditation, Paul’s eye again reverted to the paper 
and pencil ; but he had revelled too deeply in the 
grandeur and beauty of the scene to trace out with 
cool precision each particular feature. The loveli- 
ness of the landscape had been melting into his 
very soul, and the urn was not yet full to over- 
flowing. When the spirit, which administers the 
power to write or to draw, impels, it is imperative, 
and he who writes or draws without the promptings 
of that spirit, is profane ! As the eye of the youth 
again fell upon the paper, and as his ear caught the 
music of the river, scarcely aware of what he did, 
he traced these lines, which were the real out- 
bursting of a heart full of strange melodies : 

THE BRANDYWINE. 

I. 

Not Juniata’s rocky tide 

That bursts its mountain barriers wide, 

Nor Susquehanna broad and fair, 

Nor thou, sea-drinking Delaware, 

May with that lovely stream compare 


PAUL REDDING. 


15 


That draws its winding silver line 
Through Chester’s storied vales and hills, 
The bright, the laughing Brandywine, 
That dallies with its hundred mills. 
ii. 

It sings beneath its bridges gray 
To cheer the dusty traveller’s way ; 

Or courting for a time his glance, 

It rests in glassy stillness there, 

And soon gives back his countenance 
Beguiled of half its care. 

Or wide before some cottage door 
It spreads to show its pebbled floor ; 

And there while little children meet 
To gather shells at sunny noon, 

Its ripples sparkle round their feet, 

And weave a joyous tune. 

III. 

Yet I have seen it foam when pent 
As wroth at the impediment ; 

For like our noble ancestry 
It ever struggled to be free ! 

But soon along some shady bank 
In conscious liberty it sank, 

Then woke and sought the distant bay 
With many a blessing on its way. 

IV. 

Oh when our life hath run its course, 
Our billowy pulses lost their force, 

Then may we know the heavenly ray 
Of peace hatli lit our useful way ; 

Yet feel assured that every ill 
Hath sunk beneath a steadfast will. 


16 


PAUL REDDING. 


May we, when dying, leave behind 
Somewhat to cheer a kindred mind ; 

That toil-worn souls may rather bless 
Than curse us in their sore distress. 

For O, his is a hateful lot 
Who dies accursed, or dies forgot ; 

But sweet it is to know the brave 
May conquer, with good deeds, the grave ; 
And leave a name that long may shine 
Like that of memory divine, 

The far-famed “ Banks of Brandywine.” 

Paul had proceeded thus far, when, suddenly, a 
heavy shadow fell across the paper ; he turned his 
gaze hurriedly up, — there stood confronting him a 
tall, gaunt figure, which, as it was situated exactly 
between himself and the afternoon sun, seemed to 
be at first but one dense shadow, with just sufficient 
of the human form to make its appearance ghostly. 
The young man started to his feet, and by so doing, 
was enabled to discern the face and features of the 
stranger, which were those of a tall, middle-aged 
man, haggard and insane. His large, black eyes 
flashed wildly from beneath dark, heavy brows ; 
his features were regular, and his complexion was 
of that sombre hue, which is only seen on those 
persons who are subject to all vicissitudes of wind 
and sun. His locks were long and straggling, and 
his cheeks deeply sunken. He wore a long, dark, 
old-fashioned surtout ; around his waist was tied a 
large, parti-colored handkerchief, whilst another of 


PAUL REDDING. 


17 


a similar character was fastened around his neck 
outside of the upright coat-collar. Paul surveyed 
him with wonder ; and the mysterious man stood 
leaning on a tall staff, gazing wildly on the • youth ; 
his lips moving inaudibly, as though devoid of all 
power of articulation. His lank hands, as they 
grasped the top of the stick, seemed like those of a 
skeleton, encased in shrivelled gloves. At last he 
muttered aloud, 

“ Did you see them pass this way ? ” 

“ See what pass this way ? ” replied Paul. 

u Ay, ay, I thought so,” said the man, looking 
vacantly on the distance. A silence of some 
moments ensued ; in the mean time, Paul strove to 
invent some plan by which he could draw some- 
thing satisfactory from the stranger, and therefore 
requested him to sit down, at the same time point- 
ing to the stone seat beneath the old apple-tree. 

“ No ! no ! not there ! not there ! ” cried the 
stranger. “ I ’ve been scraping the spots from the 
floor with this blade ! ” as he spoke, he produced 
a large, broad-bladed, buck-handled knife. “ Yes, 
with this blade,” he continued ; “ they say, that 
which gives may take away ; but oak is hard wood, 
and it holds a stain as tightly as the conscience ! ” 
With a loud hysterical laugh, the maniac hurried 
away toward the wood, leaving the young man to 
pursue his course and to draw his own conclusions. 


CHAPTER II. 


Hominem pagina nostra sapit. 

Martial. 

Mynheer Gotlieb Speckuncrout was the pro- 
prietor of the Half-way House, a place of “ enter- 
tainment for man and beast,” situated on the road 
leading from Philadelphia to Lancaster. The host 
was a very diminutive specimen of humanity, with 
a very round head and a remarkably red nose. 
Of a warm summer afternoon, he would take his 
pipe and station himself beneath the old elm-tree 
that shaded the front of the inn, and for hours 
contemplate with intense interest the counterfeit 
presentment of the “ Half-way House,” on the 
swinging sign-board. It was with great compla- 
cency and secret admiration that he gazed upon 
something in the shape of a man, very uniquely 
enveloped in a long waistcoat and red night-cap, 
represented as helping a stranger from the stage- 
coach. With considerable curiosity, too, he com- 
pared each particular button of his own vest with 
those of the one on the sign ; and with quiet deter- 
mination, each day resolved that his cap should 
undergo a course of soap and water to restore its 
primitive brightness, in order that the one on the 
board might not outvie the original. Nor could 
Mynheer Speckuncrout refrain at all times from 


PAUL REDDING. 


19 


speaking aloud his admiration of that wonderful 
specimen of art. Every new guest must undergo 
the infliction of hearing all the merits of the picture 
explained and expatiated upon, and Mynheer never 
finished an eulogy upon John Dobbs, the painter, 
without repeating the exclamation of the frau 
Speckuncrout, when she first beheld the portrait of 
the Half-way House. He would take his pipe from 
his mouth, and exclaim, “ Der frau, when she saw 
der pictur, put up her specs, den put ’em down, 
den looked close at der pictur, den stood away, an’ 
she said, 1 Veil now, John Dobbs, veil I declare, if 
I did n’t know dat vasn’t Gotlieb Speckuncrout, I 
should say that it vas, for its just as much like 
Gotlieb Speckuncront as I never see ! ’ Ha, ha, 
dat vas vot der frau said, yes.” Thereupon Myn- 
heer would replace his pipe, rub his hands briskly 
together, and send them on an exploring expedition 
into the depths of his pockets. 

One warm afternoon in September, the host, as 
usual, was sitting beneath the old elm tree, gazing 
at his counterpart swinging gently to and fro, at 
the same time very meditatively rubbing his hand 
over the features of his face ; but his proboscis was 
the especial point of attraction. He had just ex- 
claimed to himself, as was his practice, when no 
other audience happened to be at hand, “ And der 

frau said, veil now, John Dobbs ” Just at 

that moment he was startled by the sound of the 
stageman’s horn. Mynheer left the exclamation of 


20 


PAUL REDDING. 


the frau Speckuncrout unfinished, for that was no 
time to contemplate the fine arts. The driver 
cracked his whip, and the horses dashed furiously 
up to the door of the inn. A very tall gentleman 
in a military suit, boasting remarkably red hair, 
tremendous mustaches and imperial of the same 
agreeable sunset hue, gave Mynheer Gotlieb his 
hand ; the little host very good-naturedly assisted 
that savage-looking, warlike gentleman from the 
coach, and the warlike gentleman, in a very com- 
manding voice, ordered the good-natured host to 
bring in his baggage, give him the best room in the 
house, and the best dinner that the place would 
afford, in the shortest possible notice. To all of 
which Gotlieb Speckuncrout answered, “ Yaw, 
Mynheer,” and proceeded to the business forthwith. 
However, in a few moments he was summoned 
very loudly by the warlike gentleman, and when 
the host made his appearance, the aforesaid gentle- 
man looked Waterloo at him, and exclaimed, “ I 
say, fellow, where is the landlord ? ” 

Mynheer was thunderstruck. He opened his 
eyes to their fullest extent, partly with astonish- 
ment, and partly to view more perfectly the first 
person who had ever mistaken him for any one 
else than the veritable host. But the warlike gen- 
tleman repeated the inquiry with somewhat more 
of fierceness, and Mynheer, in as mild a manner as 
possible, replied, 

“Veil, if so be as you never did see Gotlieb 


PAUL REDDING. 


21 


Speckuncrout, (here he turned his eyes to the ceil- 
ing, to pray all the saints in his calendar to forgive 
the warlike gentleman for the oversight,) “ I say, if 
so be as you never did see Gotlieb Speckuncrout, 
vy just step this vay.” He walked towards the 
door, and the gentleman followed rather hesitat- 
ingly, looking all the time as though he would like 
a brace of just such bipeds, with or without trim- 
mings, for dinner. Although Mynheer’s feelings 
were outraged, he, good-naturedly, as possible, 
directed the warlike gentleman to observe the sign- 
board. The son of Mars drew an eye-glass from 
his pocket, and gazed through it toward the above- 
named object. He dropped his eyes several times 
from the picture to the original, thereby acknowl- 
edging the likeness. Mynheer’s triumph was com- 
plete, and he exclaimed, “Yell, you see that’s me, 
— me ! — Gotlieb Speckuncrout — yaw ! A nd mine 
frau, ven she first saw der pictur, she said — ” 

“ Sir ! ” growled the warlike gentleman in a 
voice of thunder, — “Sir! is this the only public 
house in this place ? ” That last interrogation was 
the very acme of insults. Mynheer looked first 
with amazement all around, then at himself up and 
down, and then at the door very compassionately, 
for he knew that it must feel bad. At last, shading 
his eyes with his hand, he looked far down the 
village, and with great determination he replied, 
“There is another house down der village, — 
but — Gotlieb Speckuncrout vas never the man to 


22 


PAUL REDDING. 


say any thing against his neighbors, no ! But den 
I have been told by dem as have slept there, that 
they always vas troubled with some kind o’ an’mals 
ven they vent to bed; — but I never says any thing 
against my neighbors, no! P’raps dem an’mal 
vas the night-mare, and p’raps they vasn’t — I 
doesn’t pretend to say — I never says nothing 
against my neighbors, no ! ” Thereupon the war- 
like gentleman walked into the Half-way House, 
registered his name, and retired to await the com- 
ing of his dinner. 

On the tenth of September there was a stranger’s 
name registered at the Half-way House ; — for, be 
it known, that at a country inn every man and boy 
in the town scrawls his autograph in the dirty book 
that always occupies one end of the little counter at 
the bar. There you may find the ostler’s name, 
looking for all the world like a very long animal, 
with a great many straggling legs, running off of 
the page, at an angle of forty-five degrees. There, 
too, you may find a page where the writing-master 
has displayed his immense skill in drawing eagles, 
and very top-heavy goose quills, ready made into 
pens, writing all of their own accord. Yes, on 
the tenth of September, the warlike gentleman 
turned to a new, clean place, and wrote in large 
fierce letters, “ Captain Courtly Cutlass, of the 
king’s service.” That autograph was a bright 
ornament to the register, and, in the eyes of Myn- 
heer, the leaf that held that name was forever 
afterward sacred. 


PAUL REDDING. 


23 


When the stage-coach arrives at a village, there 
are always a number of persons ready to run and 
see who 'gets out or who gets in ; but there are 
others, again, who will not mingle with what they 
deem the vulgar people, (for the pettiest town has 
its aristocracy,) but who, after common curiosity 
is gratified, walk leisurely past the inn, call as they 
return, as though it were the merest accident in 
the world. Such a person was the Hon. Timothy 
Littleworth, the only justice of the peace in the 
village, and, for one term, a senator to the State 
legislature from that place. This gentleman must 
have been some fifty years of age ; his person was 
not over-comely to look upon ; he affected a sort of 
neglige in his dress, a very common custom with 
men of genius. Was it because Mr. Little worth’s 
gigantic intellect towered above all considerations 
of dress, that he thus neglected his outward appear- 
ance ? To be sure it was ! Think you that a 
politician ever thought of wearing shabby clothes, 
merely to gain votes with the poorer classes, at the 
same time to insinuate himself into the favor of the 
rich by appearing independent ? The very thought 
is slander! But the Hon. Timothy Littleworth, 
member of the Harrisburg senate, and justice of the 
peace, was often complimented by being told that 
he was the very counterpart of Napoleon, and Mr. 
Littleworth’s conscience forbade him to commit the 
unpardonable sin of denying truth, even when 
modesty prompted him to the act. Who that ever 


24 


FAUL REDDING. 


saw Mr. Timothy Littleworth, standing by the fish- 
pond in his garden, with his arms folded over his 
breast, his right foot protruded somewhat in ad- 
vance of his left, and his eye» fixed on the tiny 
ocean, perhaps contemplating a frog, who, I say, 
that ever beheld Mr. Littleworth in such a position, 
but was strongly reminded of Napoleon Bonaparte 
on the island of St. Helena ? Such was the gentle- 
man, who, at four o’clock, p. m., stepped into the 
bar-room of the Half-way House. 

Mynheer Speckencrout was not a partizan of Mr. 
Littleworth, and as he set a decanter, containing a 
deeply-colored fluid, on the bar before that honora- 
ble gentleman, he observed, 

“ Meister Leetlevort, my friend, I vill drink your 
good health ; yaw, I vill vish you may be guf ’ner, 
because you decided de case of de brindle cow in 
my favor.” Mr. Littleworth’s countenance lit up 
amazingly. “ But,” continued Mynheer, “ I have 
something just here, (Mr. Speckencrout placed his 
hand as he spoke, about on the tenth button from 
the top of his waistcoat,) I have something just 
here as tells me I can ’t fote for you, yaw ! ” Mr. 
Littleworth looked at the host for a moment re- 
proachfully ; but glancing at the glass in his hand, 
his countenance relaxed into a smile of forgiveness, 
he raised the liquor to his lips, and contemplated 
Mynheer for several moments through the bottom 
of the tumbler. “ No ! ” ejaculated the host, as he 
set his glass down on the counter with considerable 


PAUL REDDING. 


25 


emphasis ; “ No, Johannes Clitersnider is the man, 
yaw ! ” 

Mr. Littleworth no sooner heard the name of his 
opponent than he poured the remains of the liquor 
precipitously down his throat, and putting aside his 
glass, thrust his hands with alarming determination 
into the skirt pockets of his coat, and gave vent to 
a groan that seemed to come from the very depths 
of his shoes, accompanied with the exclamation of, 

“ A tailor ! ” 

“ Yaw ! ” reiterated Gotlieb, as he turned to fill 
his pipe, “ and vhat if Johannes Clitersnider is a 
tailor ? Der man as fits me mit a coat, can fit me 
mit law — yaw, dats vat I tink.” 

Mr. Littleworth’s feelings as a man, as a citizen, 
as a statesman, and as a patriot, were too much 
outraged to permit him to make any reply. He 
took a pinch of snuff from the box on the counter, 
drew it up his proboscis in a most desperate man- 
ner, coughed vehemently, and sneezed an indefinite 
number of times. His eye caught the glaring name 
of Captain Courtly Cutlass on the register ; and, 
putting on his glasses to satisfy himself in regard 
to that remarkable autograph, he became convinced 
that it was no ostentatious flourish of Samuel Spat- 
ter, the writing-master. He left his card for the 
warlike gentleman, and assuming an air as though 
he had done one of the most condescending things 
in the world, took his leave of Mynheer Gotlieb 
Speckencrout, and the Half-way House, very much 
2 


26 


PAUL REDDING. 


as though he considered it a painful but imperative 
duty to carry away that vast amount of greatness 
that had for the last half hour shed a lustre on the 
most inanimate fixtures of the bar-room. 


CHAPTER III. 

His air was wild ; and he did stare and talk 
Of things uncouth to dream of. 

We must return to our young traveller. The 
day had been extremely sultry, such a one as is 
usually the precursor of a thunder-storm. The 
sun had not yet passed behind the blue hills in the 
distance, when a big black cloud, like a wrathful 
giant with flashing eyes, came heavily up the sky. 
The winds, that had all day slumbered in the 
vales, now leaped from their velvet couches, and, 
as though suddenly awakened from the terrors 
of a dream, ran wildly to and fro ; now whirling 
the dust from the road across the fields ; and again 
slamming the shutter in the very face of a roguish 
girl, who stood laughing at a traveller that had the 
misfortune to be forced to chase his hat the whole 
length of the village ; which hat ran with a hop- 
skip-and-a-jump along the road, and only came to 
a halt when it was lodged in the water-trough in 
front of the “ Half-way House.” The unfortunate 
traveller, (and we are loath to admit the fact, since 
it was rather an unpoetical situation for the hero of 


PAUL REDDING. 


27 


a story,) proved to be Paul Redding. He stepped 
into the bar-room, and dropping a bundle in the cor- 
ner, drew a chair to the window, and gazed silently 
on the coming storm. A cloud as dense as that 
which filled the heaven, had hung, and still con- 
tinued to hang, over the sky that should rather have 
smiled than frowned upon a friendless youth. But 
the heart of the young is like the slender stem that 
bears the flower ; though it may bend to the storm it 
rises elastic again ; it is only the stubborn or decayed 
branches that break beneath the footsteps of mis- 
fortune ; 

“ The flower, she touched on, dipt and rose, 

And turned to look at her.” 

What though Paul could look to no protecting 
father, no sympathizing mother or sister? what 
though there was no bright spot on earth that he 
could call 4 home ? * Still there was a light, one 
bright object that cheered him through a life which 
lowered so forbiddingly ; and that bright spot was 
within his own breast ! What though he had been 
cast among heartless people ? still was he triumph- 
ant, for he had a proud heart. 

Paul sat musing, but not gloomy ; though, per- 
haps, somewhat sad, until Mynheer touched him on 
the shoulder and asked him into supper. He was 
seated at the table with some five or six others, 
among whom was a tall man, who boasted a very 
large Roman nose, very small eyes hid behind 
a pair of green glasses, and a very cadaverous 


28 


PAUL REDDING. 


mouth ; these features, when combined, wore an 
expression of self-satisfaction mingled with a large 
amount of sly cunning, and even the green glasses 
seemed to sympathize with the changes of his coun- 
tenance. After looking very sharply at Paul for a 
moment, he exclaimed, 44 Well, I guess, stranger, 
we ’re agoin’ to have some rain ; ” at the same time 
putting great emphasis on the adjective 44 some.” 
Paul ventured to reply that there was every pros- 
pect of a shower. 

44 Prospect of a shower ! ” repeated the gentle- 
man in green glasses, 44 I tell you what, my juve- 
nile friend, we shall have some rain ; ” putting the 
emphasis now on the word 44 rain.” The landlord 
looked at the youth, as much as to say, Is n’t he 
a wonderful man, to be sure ? Paul betrayed no 
astonishment in regard to the matter ; but applied 
himself to his toast and tea. The gentleman in 
green glasses was evidently uneasy ; he kept his 
eyes on the pale face of the youth without even 
winking, seeming lost in conjecture. He sat not 
long, however, in that mute manner, but, as if 
words had just rushed to his assistance, he ex- 
claimed, “ Well, stranger, — you see I have to call 
you 4 stranger,’ seeing as I do n’t know your name, 
you know.” Here the gentleman took breath a 
moment, evidently disappointed when the young 
man merely nodded his head, indicating that he had 
no objection to being called 4 stranger.’ 44 1 was 
a goin’ to say,” continued he, 44 that you came 


PAUL REDDING. 


29 


darned near being caught, for just see how like all 
Jehu it’s rainin’. The clouds is pouring out their 
everlastin’ waters on the parched ’arth, while all 
natur’ stands with her mouth stretched from ear to 
ear, ready to gulp it all down. Ah, my friend, this 
is a beautiful world to contemplate ; yes, sir, it ’s 
beautiful to hear the wind smashin’ among the trees 
and tearin’ about as though it was taking its eternal 
blow ! It ’s beautiful to see the lightnin’ shootin’ 
from heaven to ’arth like a streak of wrath ; and to 
hear the thunder roarin’ like — like — like — hem 
— thunder ! P’raps you ’ve walked some distance 
to-day, stranger ? ” Paul answered that he had 
travelled some miles. 

“ From Lancaster ? ” continued the gentleman 
in green glasses. 

“ No,” was the reply, “ I have not walked so far 
as that and, much to the discomfort of the gentle- 
man who seemed indefatigable in his research into 
other people’s affairs, Paul finished his cup of tea 
and left the table. The gentleman in green glasses 
lost his appetite immediately, and as he arose from 
the table whispered into the ear of the host, that 
the person who had just stepped out was an origi- 
nal! Mynheer opened his eyes to their fullest 
extent, and exclaimed, “ No ! ” 

u Yes! ” reiterated the other. 

“ Veil, I never ! ” said the host. 

“ Yes,” replied the gentleman in green glasses 
again, giving Mynheer a very significant wink, as he 


30 


PAUL REDDING. 


made his way to the bar-room. For a few mo- 
ments he stood by the window contemplating the 
storm; but as if the last flash of lightning had 
struck him with a new idea, he exclaimed, 

“I say, stranger, p’raps you hav’nt writ your 
name in that ere book, have you ? ” pointing, as he 
spoke, to the register. Paul answered in the nega- 
tive. “ Well, I didn’t say you had, you know;” 
and the inquisitive gentleman opened the volume 
that laid on the counter. His eye wandered rapidly 
from page to page, until, at last, it fell upon the 
name of Captain Courtly Cutlass, his first astonish- 
ment found vent in a long-drawn whistle ; but when 
he had examined each particular flourish, he drew 
himself up to his fullest height, and, assuming an 
air of great severity and determination, requested 
the landlord to pass him a glass of something, at 
the same time to furnish pen and ink. 

“ If I can’t beat,” he exclaimed, “ all creation at 
this ’ere business,” (meaning the business of in- 
diting autographs,) “ my name ’s not Sam Spatter, 
that ’s all ! ” He disposed of the liquor in the 
shortest possible time, and observed that he never 
made mince meat of trifles, he did n’t ! After try- 
ing the quality of his pen some five or six times, he 
made sundry flourishes in the air, and worked the 
quill round and round until it converged to a par- 
ticular spot on the paper, when he branched off 
into very heavy strokes for the capitals, and very 
fine hair lines for the small letters. Mr. Spatter’s 


PAUL REDDING. 


31 


whole body labored. His head turned slowly from 
side to side ; his mouth, too, kept in motion, as if 
chewing the English language into the most con- 
venient shape for use. 

“ There ! ” cried Mr. Spatter, when he had 
finished* bringing his hand on his knee with a tre- 
mendous slap ; “ there, blast the brass buttons off 
my great grandfather’s old blue coat, if that ’ere 
do n’t take the shine off of ‘ Captain Cutlass,’ then I 
do n’t know molasses and water from the best of 
brandy, and it’s my private opinion I could tell 
either on ’em in the dark, and that ’s a fact.” 

“ Yaw,” said Mynheer, (perfectly convinced of 
the truth of the last part of the assertion,) as he 
laid the book aside. 

“ Hallo ! ” cried Mr. Spatter, in a tone that 
started both Mynheer and the youth. “ Hallo ! 
what ’s that ? ” 

“ Vat ’s vat? ” reiterated the landlord. 

“ The devil ’s at that ’ere winder, or I ’m no 
judge ! ” answered the other. The Dutchman 
staggered into the farthest corner of the bar, per- 
fectly terrified ; and Paul Redding, not wishing to 
be quartered so near the “ old gentleman,” retreated 
across the room. “ There he is ! ” contined Mr. 
Spatter, u do n’t you see his eyes ? O dear, how 
they do strike fire. Go way, you varmint ! — 
There — there, he’s coming in! why don’t you do 
something, somebody ? He ’s getting in at the 
winder ! ” The devil; as Mr. Spatter called the 
stranger, proved to be the same wild person that 


32 


PAUL REDDING. 


Paul had encountered in the afternoon. His fierce 
black eyes, for a moment, rested on the gentleman 
in green glasses, and he exclaimed, “ Bring me a 
glass ! ” 

“ Sartin, sartin,” said Mr. Spatter, “ it ’s shockin’ 
dry weather down your way, I reckon ! what’ll you 
have ? ” 

“ A looking-glass ! ” said the stranger. 

“ What on ’arth do you want to see in a lookin’- 
glass ? ” 

“ The devil ! ” cried the fearful-looking man with 
a shudder. 

“ I told you so, Mynheer ! I told you so, young 
man ; he wants to see himself ! There ’s a glass 
hanging there ; but you aint so handsome as to be 
vain in your old days ! O, you need n’t pull my 
coat in that way, Speck, ’cause I aint afeared of the 
old ’un, I aint! But I say don’t you smell some- 
thing like brimstone ; kind of blue blazes like, eh ? 
But see the crittur ! how he ’s shakin’ himself! and 
now he ’s talkin’ to his shadow in the glass ! Wait 
a minute, till I speak to him, though. Hem, — the 
brimstone kind of chokes one — hem — I say, my 
good friend — O, he likes to be called good , the 
devil does; there’s a tender spot on all kinds of 
animals ; tickle a bear and it won’t eat you if it’s 
never so hungry ; so I ’ll jest rub in a slice to kind 
of civilize the old ’un. I say, my good friend, a 
rain like this takes the curls out of one’s hair 
properly, doesn’t it? It melts a leetle o’ the 
stiffnin’ out o’ the best-lookin’ on us, I guess.” 


PAUL REDDING. 


33 


“ There he is, there, there ! do n’t you see him ? ” 
exclaimed the mysterious man, pointing over his 
left shoulder. 

“ Who ? ” cried Mr. Spatter. 

“ The devil ! O, he ’s an ugly devil ! Do n’t you 
see him ? look ! Do drive him away ! There he 
is, there, at the other shoulder ! Drive him away, 
drive him away ! Nobody drives him away !. ” 
And the poor man ran backwards until he struck 
the wall ; and then he laughed loud and fearfully. 
But his wild, terrible mirth, soon subsided into a 
low “he, he,” and gazing on his hands, his black 
eyes sparkled with delight. “ There,” said he, as 
if he were talking to some one at his side, “ there, 
see how the little fellows do caper, ho, ho ! twenty 
little devils play at leap frog, how they jump from 
one hand to another ! But see ! ho, ho ! the whole 
twenty are but two ! only two devils out of twenty, 
he, he ! stop, look at them, one is an old man, 
and one is a young man ; the old man lies down to 
sleep — the young man draws a dagger — see, he 
creeps up, look ! he stabs him — robs him ! avaunt, 
avaunt ! I ’ll see no more ! ” The poor man 
trembled, his countenance was distorted with ter- 
ror; he shook his hands wildly in the air, and 
then thrust them into the breast of his coat. 

“I’ll speak to him,” said Paul, “I’ll speak to 
him kindly, poor man. Don’t be frightened, friend, 
there is nothing here to hurt you ; come sit down 
and be calm, do ! ” The stranger’s countenance, 


34 


PAUL REDDING. 


as his eye fell on the speaker, settled into an 
expression of wonder, and his answer was a long- 
drawn “ e-h ? ” partly indicating that he had seen 
the face before, and partly interrogatory. 

“ Come, sit down,” continued Paul. 

“ What is your name ? ” said the stranger, in a 
low tone of voice. Paul hesitated until he saw the 
big tears standing in the stranger’s eyes, and he 
answered, “ Paul Redding.” 

“I thought so, I thought so! come near — let 
me look at you — yes, your name is Paul Red- 
ding ! ” and the man hid his face in his hands 
and wept. Paul turned away deeply affected. Mr. 
Spatter and the host looked on in mute astonish- 
ment. The mysterious stranger wiped his eyes 
hurriedly, and casting a wild glance around the 
room, rushed out of the door into the storm again, 
which raged on with unabated fury. When Paul 
retired to his room, that night, he sat down on the 
side of the bed, in deep meditation. “ How odd,” 
thought he ; “ why did I feel so much interest in a 
stranger? And why did he act so strangely in re- 
gard to me ? I am amazed that he should have 
recognised me ; I cannot remember of ever having 
seen the man before ; and yet, there was some- 
thing in his countenance that seemed familiar; 
something that I have either dreamed of or seen 
long, long ago. Poor man, how I pity him ! some- 
thing may happen to him in such a dark, stormy 
night as this. The river is swollen, I can hear it 


PAUL REDDING. 


35 


roaring even from here. I wish that I knew where 
to find — Hark ! somebody’s at the door ! who ’s 
there ? ” “ Paul, Paul,” said a low voice, “ open 

the door, don’t be afraid.” The young man at 
once recognised the voice, and immediately ad- 
mitted the mysterious stranger. “ I am glad that 
you have come,” said Paul, “ very glad ; you shall 
sleep in my bed to-night, and I will sit by and 
watch you.” “ Good boy, good boy ! but I never 
sleep at night — the devil won’t let me. There, 
I ’ll lean against the wall ; this is the only way that 
I can rest at night. I do n’t fear those ugly little 
imps that dance before my eyes, no, no ! but it ’s 
that ugly, ugly fellow that sits on my back looking 
over my shoulder into my face. Sometimes an 
old man stands- behind me, his long, white locks 
all matted with blood, and skinny finger pointing to 
a deep gash in his throat! O ! ” The stranger hid 
his fhce in his hands and groaned. “ Do be calm ! ” 
said Paul, imploringly, “ do be calm ; there is 
nothing here at all like what you describe, indeed 
there is not ! ” 

“ You can’t see them,” said the poor man ; 
“ no, you are innocent, young, and happy, and they 
all fly into my brain when you come near ! Yes, 
they are in my brain, here, here, where, years ago, 
they built a big fire that still keeps burning, burn- 
ing, burning ! But I won’t frighten you, no, no, I 
won’t. Your name is Paul Redding — I know it is. 

I have the papers here; but, let me see; no, that 


36 


PAUL REDDING. 


must not be yet. The time has not yet come — we 
shall meet again. Paul, forgive me — I forgot — 
we shall meet again ; then, perhaps, you will know. 
No matter. They call me Fiery Fitful ; remem- 
ber that. It is a nickname ; perhaps I deserve it. 
Well, no matter. Paul, farewell ; give me .your 
hand — no, no ! don’t! I forgot — farewell, Paul, 
farewell.” The strange man hurried away, leaving 
the youth perfectly bewildered. 


CHAPTER IV. 

“ Seven daughters had Lord Archibald, 

All children of one mother.” 

Wordsworth. 

On the following morning, the warlike gentleman 
sallied forth to view the beautiful, though rather 
muddy village, and to pay his respects to the im- 
portant personage, who had sent him his card on 
the previous evening. Mr. Littleworth was at home 
to the warlike gentleman, and was delighted to em- 
brace the opportunity of making the acquaintance 
of so distinguished an individual, although he, to 
speak truth, had never heard of the warlike gentle- 
man before. However, that was nothing ; the 
captain’s name was a sufficient guarantee of his 
nobility. Mr. Littleworth loved any thing that 
smacked of aristocracy, notwithstanding his declara- 
tions about his thorough democracy to his con- 


PAUL REDDING. 


37 


stituepts. He claimed some of the first men who 
have ever lived as his ancestors, and should any- 
one require it, he could trace his genealogy back, 
almost, if not quite, as far as to the greatest man of 
his time, namely, Noah. Mrs. Timothy Little- 
worth was, in every way, her husband’s equal, not 
even excepting in size of body. In fact, Mr. Little- 
worth looked upon her as the most astonishing 
woman in the country. He would frequently say 
that Mrs. L.’s beauty was not alone comprised in 
her face and form ; but her intellect was equally 
gigantic and beautiful. Besides, she was born in 
France, and being a very distant relative to Napo- 
leon, he felt that he was not going too far, when 
he acknowledged that he held her in divine admira- 
tion. She conversed in English quite as well as in 
French, and in Italian quite as well as either. In 
truth, she spoke all of the useful languages beauti- 
fully, giving the accent of each to perfection. And 
his daughters, too ; their mother had taught them 
the different languages. He was happy to say that 
they promised to equal, in every way, their more 
than talented parent. Mr. Littleworth had no less 
than seven daughters, averaging from two to sixteen 
years of age. Mr. L. left the warlike gentleman 
to amuse himself with the books and prints, while 
he hurried to the nursery to inform his precocious 
daughters, that a very great man was to dine there, 
and they must each try and improve by his ex- 
ample — they must watch him closely at table, 
and imitate all of his graces. 


38 


PAUL REDDING. 


“ Remember, my daughters,” he said, “ remem- 
ber, and be an ornament to your papa, and an 
honor to your mamma. You, Napoleana, be very 
proper ; there ’s no knowing what may grow out of 
a very small circumstance. It has always been 
your papa’s saying, my dears, that great events 
turn on remarkably small pivots. And you, 
Josephine, Maria Louisa, Austerlitziana, Lodina, 
Elbaena, and my sweet little Helena, you are to sit 
at the table with a nobleman ! Just think of it ! 
Do remember, and be very proper.” 

“ Oh yes, papa ! ” 

“And remember, Napoleana, if he addresses 
you in French, answer the gentleman promptly and 
sweetly as possible, for, as your papa has said 
before, there ’s no knowing what may grow out of 
a small circumstance.” 

The daughter addressed replied “ we, papa,” and 
u we, papa” passed from mouth to mouth, like the 
running of the upper octave of a flute, the last little 
note winding off with a very sharp screech. Ah ! 
that was a proud time for Mr. Littleworth. “ Cap- 
tain,” said he, as he entered the parlor again, “ I 
trust that you have been amused. Here are some 
of the first engravings of the age ; but it is needless, 
however, that I should tell a gentleman of your 
taste such a thing. These are all English prints. 
There, sir, that is a likeness of George the Fourth, 
if you have never seen his likeness. Oh ! I ask 
your pardon, you have seen it then, in London. 


PAUL REDDING. 


39 


Large city that London ! I correspond with several 
of the greatest men of that metropolis. Here is a 
likeness of Scott — quite a clever' man — English 
I mean. Oh ! ah ! you ’ve seen that before. But 
here, sir, here — this picture — did you observe 
this? It is a picture of Napoleon crossing the 
Alps, executed by David, pronounced Dah-vede in 
French. Yes, I presumed you knew the fact, but 
all do not ! Ah ! sir, I pray you think nothing of 
my weakness, excuse it — but I never look upon 
this picture of Bonaparte, on the island of St. 
Helena, without dropping a tear to his memory. 
You may think this weakness — yes, I knew you 
would — well, then, sir, for your sake I will not 
contemplate that picture at present. Here, sir, if 
you are fond of wit, here are the works of the 
greatest humorist of his age. There, take a seat, 
you can’t understand them in a moment, they are 
so far in advance of the age ! They are generally 
political pieces, hits at the administration. You 
will not understand them — allow me to explain. 
Ah ! here on the first page we have the likeness of 
the artist himself, Christopher Scrapp, Esq. ; fine 
intellectual face that ; the small twinkling eye in- 
dicative of wit ; how expressive the nose is, turned 
slightly up, showing his sneering disposition to a 
charm. Were it not for the hair, sir, you would ' 
observe what a forehead he has. I advised Mr. 
Scrapp to have it shaved, a thing frequently done. 
He writes me in his last letter that he has followed 


40 


PAUL REDDING. 


the suggestion, and thanks me for the advice. He 
is a wonderful man. By the way, I will give you 
his address ; mention my name, that will be sufficient. 
Observe that figure; you do n’t understand it, I pre- 
sume not, but, sir, that picture produced an alarm- 
ing excitement. It represents a figure standing on 
its head ; there are the two legs up in the air ; the 
feet are rather large, but that is; a part of Mr. 
Scrapp’s style, one of his peculiarities. The figure 
is allegorical ; it represents the present condition of 
the administration ; capital ! is n’t it ? That book, 
sir, has done more for my cause in this town than 
you could imagine. Those spirited satires, sir, 
when I held them up to the people, and gave them 
the proper explanations, the effect was miraculous ; 
unlike other senseless satires, they were not laughed 
at. No ! there is too much truth, sir, and whenever 
I presented them, a solemn silence pervaded the 
spectators. I have the greatest admiration for the 
genius of my friend Scrapp. His illustrations of 
Mother Goose give general satisfaction among the 
smaller members of my family. Ah ! yes sir, I 
look upon this artist as one of the greatest benefac- 
tors of his age, if in nothing else than amusing les 
enfans 

In this manner did Mr. Timothy Littleworth 
entertain his distinguished visiter until the dinner- 
hour, when he conducted the captain into the 
dining-room, where was presented a formidable 
array of young Littleworths, each having her hair 


PAUL REDDING. 


41 


done into two long stiff braids, tied over with any 
quantity of blue ribbon, arranged into very system- 
atic bow-knots. 

“Allow me to introduce my daughters. Miss 
Napoleana, Captain Cutlass ; Josephine, Maria 
Louisa, Austerlitziana, Lodina, and these two are 
the youngest, Elbaena and Helena. Be seated, 
captain, there, if you please, opposite my eldest. 
Ah ! here comes madam. Madam Littleworth, 
Captain Cutlass.” Now the lady L. was enormous- 
ly fat, and as she waddled into the room, her 
appearance was almost too much for the rigid 
risibilities of the warlike gentleman. She bowed, 
for who ever saw a fat woman courtesy ? No one, 
I imagine — in fact, it would be hazardous. 

“ Bon apres — midi — Monsieur,” said the lady, 
taking a seat next to her husband. 

“ I am vere mush glad to have ze pleasure, oui. 
You are in ze — ze — armee?” The captain 
bowed, and the young ladies bowed. 

“You have been in ze battle, eh, Monsieur?” 
The warlike gentleman coughed, and replied that it 
was warm, oppressively so. 

“ Oui, oui, — you have been in oppressive warm 
battle ! Vere you ever shot ? ” 

“ Hem ! no, not exactly shot, that is, slightly 
wounded.” 

“ Indeed ! Where ? ” 

“Ah! hem! it happened in a — a — vessel, 
madam — a sea engagement.” 

3 


42 


PAUL REDDING. 


“ Oh ! possible ? in ze blood vessel ? ” 

“ Oh ! ah ! yes, rather a bloody vessel, just at 
that time.” 

“ But where is ze wound ? Do let me see ze 
wound.” 

The captain was confused, and could make no 
reply for some time. At last he observed, that the 
wound could not be discerned very easily. 

“ My daughters ! ” whispered Mr. Littleworth, 
shaking his head and frowning forbiddingly, “ hush ! ” 

“ The fact is, madam,” continued the warlike 
gentleman — “The fact is, a confounded piece of 
lead came very abruptly just across my chin, and 
dislocated several individual members of my im- 
perial ; a very serious loss, I assure you.” 

“Ah ! captain,” continued Mrs. Littleworth, as 
she emptied a dish of chicken salad on her plate ; 
“ Come, captain, tell some more about ze war, just 
to amuse ze daughters, do.” 

“ Oh, do, do, do ! ” cried two or three of the 
young Littleworths. 

“My children, be silent! ” said Mr. L., firmly. 
“ Elbaena, my daughter, take that soup dish off of 
your head ; papa will you send right away from the 
table. Helena, dear, take her fingers out of the 
butter-plate ; she should n’t do so, pet.” 

“A battle is a very dreadful thing,” said the 
captain, wiping the moisture from his mustaches. 
“A very dreadful thing. You Americans know 
nothing of the horrors of war, nothing. I hope you 
will not. War is a dreadful thing.” 


PAUL REDDING. 


43 


“Oui — oui — so I tink, so I have tell my hus- 
band one, three, several times. He sail nevare go 
to war. Eh, mon cher ? ” 

“ Yes, frequently, my dear. Ah ! she is very 
affectionate — always in this beautiful serene spirit 
of tenderness that you now behold her in. Oh, 
is n’t it delightful ? ” 

“ Exceedingly.” 

“ Napoleon was a vere great war-man, captain, 
eh ? ” 

“ Yes, clever.” 

“A vere great war-man, I say ! ” 

“ Circumstances, you know, did every thing for 
him.” 

“ I do n’t know ze man Circumstanz,but I nevare 
tink of Waterloo wizout saying, Mon Dieu — ! ” 

“ Oh, my dear,” said Mr. L. 

“ Yes, you know, husband, ve bot hate dem 
Englishmen like ze — ” 

“ Hush — sh — sh ! ” 

“ Vot for hush ? Do n’t tell me hush ! I nevare 
was told hush ! — I love my country, and hate ze 
English like, like — ” 

“ Madam,” said the captain, “ I look upon Napo- 
leon as the greatest curse that ever fell upon the 
world ! ” 

“ Sare, you are not gentleman ! ” screamed Mrs. 
Littleworth, coloring deeply up to the very edges 
of her wig, and as much farther as you may choose 
to imagine. “ You are von grand coward ! ” 


44 


PAUL REDDING. 


“ Was it to be insulted, madam, that I permitted 
my person to grace your table ? ” exclaimed the 
warlike gentleman, rising. 

“ Grace my table ! You are disgrace, sare ! ” 
u I ’ll not be insulted ! Mr. Littleworth, you 
shall answer for this. We gentlemen of standing 
always go prepared to repel injury — remember 
that ! ” roared the captain. 

“ Mrs. Littleworth, Oh ! Mrs. Littleworth, you will 
be my ruin ! ” exclaimed the trembling husband. 

tc Ha ! such words to me ! ” screamed the lady 
at the top of her voice, “ Ha ! ha ! ” The three 
youngest Littleworths caught up the scream of the 
infuriated mother, and clenching their little fists, at 
arms’ length, and shutting their eyes very tight, 
prolonged it. 

“ I ’ll do something dreadful, Mr. Littleworth ! 
I ’ll be the death of you ! ” cried the warlike gen- 
tleman, as he left the apartment. It was in vain 
that Mr. Littleworth followed him to the door, and 
implored his pardon ; for the warlike gentleman 
was neither butter nor sugar, and therefore would 
not melt. When Mr. Littleworth returned to the 
room, he found the young ladies undergoing certain 
gymnastic exercises with their enraged mamma, not 
altogether pleasant, which performance being over, 
Mrs. Littleworth, with great determination, seated 
herself upon the table, unmindful of cracking plates 
and squashing contents, placed her arms akimbo, 
and, gazing around on her husband and progeny, 


PAUL REDDING. 


45 


she felt, not for the first time either, that she was 
u monarch of all she surveyed ; her right there was 
none to dispute.” 


CHAPTER V. 

The crowded streets are gay ; 

But with melancholy mood , 

Amid the thronging solitude 
The stranger wends his way. 

There was a great bustle at the Half-way House ; 
the stage-coach had arrived, and was in readiness 
to start again. The inside passengers, as usual, 
were all impatience. Heads of various qualities of 
beauty, were continuously popping in and out, as 
though they were machines worked by so many 
wires. One fat old lady concluded at first that it 
was not worth while to get out of the coach, but 
when it was about to start, she thought she would 
get out ; but just then the horses started a few paces 
on, and the good lady was jolted back into a very 
nervous old gentleman’s lap ; the old lady muttered 
something about some people occupying all the 
seat ; and did wish that somebody would see to her 
bandbox, for she was sure it had dropt off, ever so 
many miles back on the road ; she did wish that the 
driver would look after it, he could n’t help know- 
ing it, for it was tied up with a blue checkered 
handkerchief, and contained her best bonnet, be- 


46 


PAUL REDDING. 


side a bundle of water-crackers, and a half pound of 
good home-made cheese. But it was n’t any use 
of talking, she knew that, and always knew it ! 
Paul Redding had engaged a place on the outside 
of the coach by the driver, and when he was about 
mounting into his seat, Mynheer Speokuncrout 
very slyly slipped something into the young man’s 
pocket, and, shaking him heartily by the hand, wished 
him success. The ruddy-cheeked coachman 
cracked his whip, and the horses started briskly off. 

“ Remember,” cried the good-natured host, 
pointing to the sign, “ when you come this way, 
remember der Half-way House ! ” The young 
man nodded his head, and would have replied 
verbally, but they were already far down the road. 
By five o’clock they were at the “ Spread Eagle,” 
by eight, they were crossing the Schuylkill bridge, 
and by nine, Paul was traversing the very regular 
streets of the Quaker city. He walked down 
Market street and up Chestnut, gazing, as all 
strangers are wont to do, at the curiosities in the 
shop-windows. At one time he stood before a 
jeweller’s store, where were displayed more silver 
plate, gold watches, and queer, fantastic clocks, than 
he had ever dreamed of. Farther along was a 
bookstore, where were emblazoned immense pla- 
cards, announcing the last new novel by Mr. Some- 
body, Esq. ; Madame What’s-her-name’s works on 
political economy ; Man as he is ; Medicine in 
general and anatomy in particular. Mr. What-do- 


PAUL REDDING. 


47 


ye-call-him’s advice to the young ; advice to mar- 
ried ladies, and directions for the nursery. Here 
was spread, to a crowd of ragged admiring urchins, 
the last great works of the renowned Christopher 
Scrapp, Esq. ! 44 Here,” thought Paul, 44 is to be 

seen one of those revolutions which that quaint old 
gentleman, Time, brings about. While Madame 
What’s-her-name’s works on political economy, &c., 
are emblazoned forth, old Adam Smith lies neglect- 
ed on the shelves, enveloped in dust. Now Mr. 
What-do-ye-call-him has dropped the badges of 
manhood, turned the women out of the nursery, and 
dandles the children on his knee to the tune of 
4 high diddle diddle ! ’ ” 44 Well,” continued Paul, 

44 if this state of things prevails in the city, I shall 
fain wish myself back in the quiet simple country 
again, where at least the women nurse their own 
children, and the farmers pursue their occupation 
without female direction.” The thought of the 
country suggested again to the young man the con- 
sciousness of his abject situation. 44 Here,” said 
he, 44 1 am in this large city, without friends and 
without money ! Here industry and knavery 
flourish cheek by jowl. The frivolous and thought- 
ful, rich and poor, honest and dishonest, hurry along 
in one promiscuous crowd, all , perhaps, more com- 
fortable than I. The most abandoned wretch may 
have one friend to speak kindly to him, and shield 
him for the night ; the most ragged urchin in the 
street may have a kind-hearted mother who rejoices 


48 


TATJL REDDING. 


at the return of her son, although he may come to 
eat the only remaining crust ! Heaven ! gracious 
heaven ! why am I an orphan ? I am here walled 
in with houses, I pass an almost interminable row 
of doors, yet all are closed to me ; and many a bed 
to-night will remain untouched, while I — but no 
more of that ; what right have I to expect any thing 
of Strangers ? they know not me nor I them. If I 
sleep in the street, the watchmen will surely not 
murder me ; if I am robbed, the thief will not be 
much enriched nor I much impoverished.” Thus 
ruminated Paul, as he stepped into a small res- 
taurateur. Among the promiscuous assemblage of 
persons regaling themselves on various articles of 
food and liquor, two persons in particular attracted 
his attention. One was a little shrivelled-up Qua- 
ker ; and the other was a short, robust, ill-looking 
individual, with very jagged features ; an iron hook, 
that was appended to his elbow, did service in the 
place of his right hand; and with that he toyed 
carelessly with the different articles before him, on 
the table, the use of the hook seeming to have be- 
come a second nature. Paul gazed at the man a 
moment, and a shudder ran over him, for he felt 
that he had seen that ugly countenance before ; but 
where, he could not at that moment recollect. 
When a plate of oysters was set before the two 
men, the little Quaker rolled his eyes up to the 
ceiling and looked very devout, then turning them 
down again, he gazed around on the company, as 


PAUL REDDING. 


49 


if to take them to witness that he was a pious man 
and thankful for the smallest favors ! 

Paul took a seat and looked over the morning 
news. His eye met the lists of “wants,” and feeling 
in his pocket for a scrap of paper to note down the 
number of two or three of what seemed to be 
desirable places, he found a queer wad stowed 
away in one corner, and carefully opening it, dis- 
covered, much to his astonishment, the self-same 
money that he had paid to the host of the Half-way 
House. Paul was at first delighted, and then 
mortified, that he had been an object of charity ; 
yet he was grateful, for he felt how disinterested 
were the motives of the benevolent giver. “ This,” 
thought Paul, “ this, will I remember, that the most 
needy stand not always with open mouths. The 
ice-bound stream is noiseless; but the greedy 
brooks, the more they are filled the more they cry 
aloud.” Our hero was about rising from his seat, 
when a gentleman, who was handling pencil and 
paper on the opposite side of the room, begged him 
to sit still, if it was but for a moment. “ I have 
something of interest to communicate to you pres- 
ently,” said the stranger, and in a few moments he 
seated himself beside the astonished youth. “I 
have been making a sketch of you. I hope you will 
take no offence, none intended, I assure you ; but as 
you sat here with that bundle, your appearance struck 
me as exceedingly picturesque. Here is the sketch, 
very hastily done, yet there ’s character in it, eh ? ” 


50 


PAUL REDDING. 


Paul was evidently not pleased at first, but when he 
examined the picture he saw nothing there that 
might not have been drawn from any one else in 
the establishment, and feeling assured that no one 
could ever imagine him as the original, he replied 
that he was quite happy if he had been of any 
service to the artist. “ Of service ! ” reiterated the 
stranger, talking through his nose. “ You have 
been of vast service. I have been for the last fort- 
night on the lookout for you ; yes, sir, for you ; I 
saw you in my mind’s eye. A place like this is 
the best in the world for characters. I visit here 
nightly, not to eat or drink, as my enemies have 
insinuated, but to make sketches. Hogarth was in 
the habit of doing the same ; he used to draw 
figures upon his thumb-nail. The smallness of the 
space must have cramped his genius. I have tried 
it, but I make so many drawings in an evening that 
I found it impossible to follow the example of that 
great man. This sketch, I will tell you in perfect 
confidence, is to illustrate a look : yes, sir, a book. 
You have heard of Inkleton, the poet ? never heard 
of Ichabod Inkleton, the poet ! You amaze me ! 
Well, you see he is now engaged on a great work ; 
he undertook it by my advice ; and that great work 
I am illustrating. It will make a tremendous sen- 
sation, you may depend. The book will be in six 
volumes, entitled ‘A travesty on John Bunyan’s 
Pilgrim’s Progress, by Ichabod Inkleton, with illus- 
trations by Christopher Scrapp, Esq.’ Now, sir, 


PAUL REDDING. 


51 


you will understand why I drew this figure. Do 
you observe that short, fat gentleman sitting at yon- 
der table ? ” “ The one with the very red nose ? ” 

said Paul. “ Well, yes, his nose is rather red ; you 
understand who I mean — that interesting-looking 
individual, with the broad collar thrown open.” 
“ Oh yes, I see,” replied Paul, “ the man with sore 
eyes who is stirring his liquor with his finger.” 
“ I say, my boy, pass my friend Inkleton a spoon. 
Well, my young friend, that gentleman as you 
understand, is the poet yes, sir, the first poet of our 
country. I shall do you the honor of an introduc- 
tion. You will find his conversation not only in- 
structive but amusing. His thoughts are always 
beautiful, and his language is always poetry. He 
frequently couches his observations in verse ; you 
would be delighted to hear him at such times. I 
thought that there was something of the vein about 
him this evening ; you may be fortunate enough to 
hear him. Mr. Inkleton is always delighted to 
make the acquaintance of any one whom I recom- 
mend to him, because he feels and knows that he 
owes much, if not all of his great popularity, to my 
influence. Come, we will approach him. Inky, 
my friend, here is a young man, the original of this 
sketch ; permit him to linger in the same air which 
your greatness breathes.” “ My dear Scrapp, let 
me embrace you,” said Mr. Inkleton, attempting to 
rise, which act Mr. S. prevented, and embraced 
him where he sat. “ My dear Scrapp,” continued 


52 


PAUL REDDING. 


the poet — and he shook hands with Paul over the 
artist’s back — “ my dear Scrapp, ’t is thus I fain 
would clasp your friend, your wife, or daughter ; 
hand me a glass, my boy, of gin, without the water. 
Forgive me, Scrapp, you know my love is quite 
Platonic. But let that pass, and take a glass of 
inspiration, called Byronic. Join us, young man, 
and — and — ” “ I never drink,” answered Paul. 

“ He is modest,” said Mr. Scrapp, “ and never 
drinks, I presume, unless he is permitted to call on 
the liquor himself.” “ I drink nothing intoxicating, 
sir, under any circumstances,” replied the young 
man, coloring. “ I wish to know, Mr. Scrapp, if I 
understood you rightly ; you introduced this young 
man as a friend of yours ?” “ No, sir, not as friend, 
but as the original of this sketch.” “Ah, yes, that 
explains it ; otherwise, young man, that last observa- 
tion of yours would have been mysterious — fact; I 
assure you, I am serious.” “ The evening is far 
advanced,” said Paul. “Accept my thanks for 
your attentions ; good night, gentlemen.” “ Good 
night,” said Inkleton, “ we ’ll excuse you, nor lose 
much neither when we lose you.” Our hero took 
lodging for the night at the sign of the “ Bull’s 
Head,” a quiet inn, situated in Strawberry alley. 
He had there, he thought, a bed very much more 
agreeable than he could possibly bring himself to 
think could be found in the softest stall in the whole 
market-house. 


CHAPTER VI. 


The eagle and the hawk may Strive 
Amid the upper air } 

But wherefore, tell me, wherefore should 
The tender dove be there ? 

On the evening of the following day, in an old 
building, situated at the corner of Strawberry and 
Trotter’s alleys, there sat two of our principal char- 
acters ; one at least worthy of considerable atten- 
tion, as he proved to be no other than the mysterious 
personage, that has already been described as Fiery 
Fitful, so called. He was seated at a little square 
table, over which he leaned with his brow resting on 
his hand ; his face was more pale and haggard 
than it had yet appeared ; his eyes were deep sunken, 
but had lost none of the lustre of their piercing 
blackness ; and he only raised them at intervals to 
gaze at his companion, but his look was that of one 
who carried a broken heart, and as he turned his 
eyes away, the language of inward agony was 
given in a deep sigh — a sigh near akin to a groan. 
Could we at all times comprehend the burden of a 
sigh, what mysteries would be unfolded, what sad 
thoughts, what heart-rending sorrow, what awful 
deeds, appealing to our sympathies, our tears, and 
our prayers ! But no ; the heart is a strange book, 
only intelligible to the Wakeful eye of the spirit, 
that hidden priest who ever chants the psalms of 
joy or sorrow in the sanctuary of the breast. At 


54 


PAUL REDDING. 


times, however, some response of that chant rises 
to the lips, like the distant sound of an organ peal, 
conveying the feeling though in a mysterious lan- 
guage ; and the features answer to its changes, as 
the stream gives back the clear sky, or the rum- 
bling thunder-cloud. 

Heaven alone heard the slow, solemn, and sor- 
rowful psalm of the poor spirit that ministered in 
the breast of Fitful’s companion. A pale female, 
the remnant of a once beautiful woman, but now 
prematurely shadowed with the veil of age, sat on 
the opposite side of the small room. She was 
dressed in one of those old-fashioned drab cloaks, 
the plain hood answering the place of a bonnet. 
Her hair that had once been of a flaxen color 
touched with gold, was now sadly mixed with gray, 
and hung carelessly over her brow and temples. 
Her hands were clasped listlessly together on her 
lap, and as she leant forward her pale blue eyes 
gazed vacantly on the walls, and her whole face 
was so entirely blank, you could not but think 
that some blighting sorrow had chilled the senses, 
and thus swept every vestige of expression from 
her countenance. Such, indeed, had been her 
sorrow, and such the result. 

“ Poor woman ! ” thought Fitful, as he heaved a 
bitter sigh, “ poor woman, God knows what she has 
suffered ! Of what a lovely thing is she the wreck ! 
O, it drives me mad to think of it — could she but 
wake up from that horrible lethargy, if it^ were but 


PAUL REDDING. 


55 


for the space of an hour, that I might tell her of 
the fires that are consuming me, and would bear it 
all, how calmly. But now, it is as though I had 
cursed my mother and she had died, while yet the 
words were in the air, leaving me unforgiven, with 
the unnatural crime forever recoiling upon my own 
head. Nothing in man’s great book of calamities 
could be more terrible, except what I now see 
before me! But I must speak to her — Mary, — 
Mary, I say — ” “ Did you speak ? ” said the poor 

woman, turning upon Fitful the same expression- 
less face. “Yes, Mary, I was about to tell you 
that the boy has arrived in the city.” 

“ I had a boy once,” replied she. “ I remem- 
ber him yet.” Ah, yes, what force of circum- 
stances ever compelled a mother to forget her 
child ? Through the heaviest mist that wraps the 
dulled senses, or the blackest clouds of adversity, 
the mother’s remembrance of her child come star- 
like ; yes, amid all this, 

“ A mother is a mother still, 

The holiest thing alive.” 

“ But I was agoing to tell you,” resumed the 
man, “ I was agoing to tell you, that Paul is in 
town.” 

“ Paul, — Paul,” — said she, slowly, “ yes, I like 
that name — my father’s name was Paul ; he was 
an old man; his hair was quite white — very like 
my own — yes, I think sometimes, that I look like 
him — look as he did when he was dead — very 


56 


PAUL REDDING. 


pale ; but I did n’t see him then — no, no, I did n’t 
see him then.” 

“ Gracious heaven ! ” groaned Fitful, covering 
his face in his hands ; at last he started, as if im- 
pelled by some irresistible power, and gazing 
Vvildly around, he was about to give vent to words 
that seemed struggling for utterance, when a slight 
knocking was heard at the door ; Fitful in a mo- 
ment recoiled within himself, and assumed his 
usual composure, if, indeed, at any time he might 
be said to be composed. The manner in which a 
person demands entrance by the common mode of 
rapping on the door with the knuckle or any similar 
instrument, is as good an index perhaps to the 
character of an individual as almost any of their 
other external actions ; not only may you judge of 
their usual peculiarities, but more especially of the 
present mood by which they are actuated. Such 
was the case in the present instance. Fitful in- 
voluntarily contracted his brows and gazed for a 
moment angrily towards the door, his fierce black 
eyes seemed to penetrate the panels, and to survey 
the stranger with an unwelcome look of recognition. 
The sly, crafty knock, if such an epithet may be 
applied to a sound, was repeated, and the person 
was admitted. Nathaniel Munson, (for such was 
the name of the intruder,) was a little shrivelled-up 
old man, dressed in Quaker garb ; his very small 
gray eyes twinkled very sharply from beneath 
jagged eyebrows, and his thin Roman nose came 


PAUL REDDING. 


57 


into close proximity with his peaked chin, which 
was half buried in the thick loose folds of his 
white neck handkerchief, the latter being the only 
article about him that wore the appearance of 
amplitude or freedom. 

“ How does thee do, John ? ” exclaimed the 
Quaker, rubbing his hard, bony hands together, as 
if he* enjoyed the feeling, since he knew that the 
sharp knuckles and lank fingers betrayed no very 
great extravagance in his mode of living. “ Ah,” 
thought he, as he hid a malicious grin by burying 
his face deep in his neck-cloth, and gazed toward 
the woman who was scarcely yet conscious of his 
presence, “ Ah, ha! she is here, eh! perhaps with 
some complaint of ill usage, or something of that 
sort, eh ? Well, well, we’ll stop this communica- 
tion one of these days.” His thoughts, however, 
were not deep enough to be concealed from the 
searching gaze of Fitful, who read the Quaker’s 
mind in his countenance as easily as though it had 
been a book. Munson quailed beneath the fiery 
indignation of Fipful’s eye, while the latter led the 
woman to the door, and giving her to understand 
that they must part for the present, bade her good 
night. “Now, sir,” said he, turning - to the old 
man, who had betaken himself to a seat, “Now, 
sir, may I be informed as to what circumstances I 
am indebted for the honor of this call ? ” 

“ Law, bless me, John,” said the Quaker, smiling 
sarcastically, “Law, thee is so polite ! ” 

4 


58 


PAUL REDDING. 


“ Well, then,” answered the other, “ to be less 
polite and more to the purpose, what in the devil’s 
name brings your hideous skeleton here, to-night ? ” 
Here Nathaniel Munson dropped his face 
deeper than before into his neck-cloth, and gave 
vent to a half-smothered “ he, he.” “ You well 
know,” continued Fitful, “ that I had rather see the 
foulest ghost that ever troubled the perpetrator of 
the blackest crime that man or demon could com- 
mit, than stand for a moment in your loathsome 
presence ! ” The Quaker made no other reply 
to this speech than a mere nervous working of his 
fingers, as if he were, in imagination, strangling 
some hateful enemy. 

u Like an evil vine, you wove your wily schemes 
about me until my whole existence was poisoned 
by them ; and now you come to glut your odious 
eyes upon me, blasted as I am in the very prime of 
manhood ! ” 

“ It was your own willing act,” at last answered 
Munson, emphatically, dropping the personal pro- 
noun “ thee ” for another more broad and expres- 
sive ; “ you did it, and I have kept your secret.” 

“Yes, you have kept the secret, and wisely, 
since you know that the scaffold which the law 
would build for me would be sufficiently ample to 
accommodate two of us.” 

“ No, no, not my throat,” said the old man, as 
he adjusted the handkerchief about his neck, “ not 
mine.” 


PAUL REDDING. 


59 


Fitful smiled contemptuously, and seating him- 
self opposite to the Quaker, requested, very mildly, 
that Nathaniel Munson would make known his 
business without further delay ; or, if his business 
was of no particular importance, to at once take 
his leave, and in future be careful and not cross his 
(Fitful’s) path too often. 

“ O, yes, I ’ll take care of that,” replied Munson, 
striving to appear very good-natured ; and added, 
again going back to the Quaker mode of expres- 
sion, which he invariably used when he engaged in 
any dissimulation, “ Thee seems somewhat vexed, 
John ; I trust thee is not angry with me ? ” 

“ Your business, I say, again,” answered Fitful, 
impatiently. 

“Very well, we will to business, then, if thee 
will have it so,” replied the old man. “Thee 
knows that thy strange behavior hath drawn many 
eyes toward thee ; many inquiries and unpleasant 
conjectures are bandied from mouth to mouth even 
now through the city ; thee knows this, eh ? ” 

“ Well — well — go on.” 

“ Thee knows,” continued Munson, “ that should 
any clue be got to a certain transaction, thee knows 
what foul disgrace would forever stigmatize certain 
innocent persons nearly connected with thee, eh? ” 

“ Yes, yes,” answered Fitful, “and I know, too, 
that in that case certain persons who are not quite 
so innocent would be placed in rather an un- 
pleasant situation ; but go on.” 

“ Therefore it is desirous,” pursued the Quaker, 


60 


PAUL REDDING. 


“ that thy appearance here should no longer awake 
the suspicions of these curious people.” 

“And therefore it is desirous,” answered the 
other, sneeringly, “ that I should go and drown 
myself.” 

“ O, no, by no means ; thee mistakes my friend- 
ship,” replied Munson, while a fiendish expression 
of cunning played over his features. “ Thee 
knows, or ought to know, that I have always been 
a friend to thee and thine.” 

“ Cease your hypocritical jargon,” said Fitful, 
angrily, “ but proceed with your business.” 

“ What I am about to propose,” continued the 
other, “ will in no way compromise thy own safety 
or peace of mind, but rather add to it, and espe- 
cially secure the quietude of those so nearly con- 
nected with thee ; those whom thee cares most for, 
I mean,” added he, as he saw a scowl gathering 
over the face of his companion. 

“ A vessel of mine is in port, and will sail again 
in three or four weeks, to make a voyage of a few 
months ; now I thought, perhaps, that thee might 
like to take a trip in her, and, by so doing, thee 
would be enabled to see new scenes in other coun- 
tries that would brighten thee up and make a new 
man of thee, eh ? ” 

“I’ll think of it,” answered Fitful, musingly; 
“and, in the meantime, I desire to be left alone, 
that is if you have finished your business ; therefore 
leave — no, stay ; I forgot to say to you what I 
know will give you great pleasure to hear — the 


PAUL REDDING. 61 

boy Paul is in town.” As Fitful said this, Munson 
started as though he had suddenly encountered a 
ghost ; and then he contracted his brows heavily, 
thrust his chin very deep into his neckcloth, and 
stood gazing thoughtfully at the floor. At last he 
murmured, half inaudibly, “ He, then, is the first 
incumbrance to be got rid of.” 

“ What are you muttering about ? ” exclaimed 
Fitful. 

“ O, I was just thinking what employment we 
could give him; we must do something for him, 
thee knows.” 

“ Well, sir,” said the other, waving his hand for 
Munson to leave, “ I will send the boy to you, 
to-morrow, since you are so solicituous about his 
welfare. So, now that is settled for the present, 
go ! ” As he said this, the door closed heavily at 
the back of Nathaniel Munson, who pursued his 
way moodily to his own dwelling. 


CHAPTER VII. 

“ The departed ! the departed ! 

They visit us in dreams, 

And they glide above, our memories, 

Like shadows over streams.” 

Park Benjamin. 

The reader may imagine Paul Redding being 
seated in the comfortable old-fashioned bar-room of 
the “ Bull’s Head.” There are coats and hats of 


62 


PAUL REDDING. 


every shape and quality decorating the walls ; 
here is the broad-brimmed, furless hat of the 
Quaker; there the long whip and weather-beaten 
overcoat of the wagoner. All of these bespeak the 
character of the house, which is a sort of country 
inn, for the accommodation of the good, homely- 
minded market people, who make a weekly, month- 
ly, or half-yearly tour to the city with their produce, 
from the rich old counties of Lancaster and Ches- 
ter. Many years ago, when but a child, we well 
remember with what admiration, nay, almost awe, 
we then gazed at the bull’s head on the swinging 
sign-board ; the mad eye, the foam dropping from 
the mouth, seemed to be the highest reach of art ; 
and the chain around his neck appeared to be a 
very necessary appendage. But we must return 
to the youth. The reader may now imagine what 
was Paul’s surprise to encounter the same strange 
person, that but a day or two since, he had first 
met in the neighborhood of an obscure village, 
some thirty miles back in the country. The 
stranger’s air was now less terrific, his eyes less 
wild, and his dress less peculiar, not to say fantastic ; 
but his face bore still that same haggard hue, and 
there was something yet sufficiently strange in his 
manner to make him attract the attention of most 
persons, and elicit queer conjectures from the more 
curious. Fitful was keenly sensible of this. The 
glance of every eye annoyed him, and he inter- 
preted every whisper to be some surmise or un- 


PAUL REDDING. 


63 


pleasant suggestion of which he was the subject. 
Therefore he gave Paul to understand, that he was 
not altogether what he seemed, and persuaded the 
young man to accompany him to his own private 
lodgings. And Paul, actuated somewhat by 
curiosity, and, perhaps, from a sense of his own 
loneliness, but more from a deep sympathy for the 
mysterious man, at last consented ; and the two 
strangers, followed by the inquiring gaze of twenty 
eyes, glided out, and were soon lost amid the dark- 
ness of the street. They entered a narrow alley- 
way, and passing through the back room of an old 
building, Fitful led the way cautiously up a dark 
flight of stairs into the little apartment mentioned in 
the last chapter. On one side there were two windows 
that were tightly fastened up with old-fashioned 
board shutters ; in one corner of the room was 
situated a small bed, and opposite to that was the 
little fire-place, mounted with an old black mantle- 
piece, over which hung two antique-looking pistols, 
well coated with rust ; and between these stood a 
small quaintly-figured dingy clock, that ticked so 
slow and mournfully, that you might have imagined 
it was complaining over the loss of its better and 
brighter days. On the base of the clock, which 
was of brass, these mysterious lines were dimly 
carved, or rather scratched : 

“A pendulum bright is the heart of a youth, 

That ever goes merrily on, 

Till crime clings unto it, then horrible ruth 
Like rust gnaws away, with unsatisfied tooth, 

Nor stops when its brightness is gone.” 


64 


PAUL REDDlftG. 


The appearance of the place impressed Paul with 
an irresistible feeling of awe, and served in no 
way to solve the mystery, that hung around the 
stranger; but notwithstanding all this, the young 
man’s curiosity was still more excited, and, 
assuming an air of confidence, he accepted the 
proffered chair, while Fitful drew up another and 
seated himself familiarly by his side. 

“ I was somewhat surprised to find you in the 
city,” said he. 

“ Yes, I was almost surprised at it myself,” an- 
swered Paul ; “ but I arrived here last evening, in 
hopes of finding some situation where I might better 
my fortune ; for I have had rather a hard lot of it 
since being left an orphan, when a mere child.” 

“An orphan,” sighed Fitful ; “ poor boy ! ” 

“An orphan is to be pitied, to be sure,” replied 
the young man, coloring slightly, “ but not so much 
pitied while he has health and strength, and hands 
to work with.” 

“ Yes, yes,” answered the other, “ the energy of 
a determined, youthful, innocent mind — mark me, 
I say a pure mind — can easily surmount every 
barrier that misfortune may throw in its way.” 

“ I think that I have energy enough, if I may be 
allowed to say so much in my own favor,” answer- 
ed Paul. 

“And a pure mind to back it, I have no doubt,” 
said Fitful. 

“But,” continued he, changing the subject, “ if I 


PAUL REDDING. 


65 


was surprised to see you here, I may readily guess 
that you were equally so to encounter me ; that is, 
if you recognise me again.” Paul answered that 
it was not an easy thing to forget so soon, the face 
that he had seen under such peculiar circumstances, 
at the village inn but a short time before. 

“Ah yes, indeed ! ” sighed Fitful, “ that was 
a dreadful black night — a most horrible night, 
Paul ! ” 

“ It was, indeed ! ” answered the young man. 

“I would tell you something of it,” continued 
Fitful, casting a sly glance over his shoulder, “ for 
it relieves my mind, and drives away those dreadful 
fancies, when I can talk with some friend familiarly 
about them. But no, no, it would frighten you, 
Paul, terrify you, if you could see, for one moment, 
those hideous creatures at my shoulder. I ’ll not 
talk of them ! ” And the poor man passed his hands 
nervously over his brow and head, as if to repel 
the rising recollection. 

“ I pray you,” said Paul, “ if it affords you but a 
moment’s ease of mind, I pray you, speak on.” 

Fitful gazed cautiously around the room, and 
remarked again in an undertone, “ Oh, what a 
fearful night that was, Paul, was n’t it ? ” 

“ Very ! ” replied the young man, shuddering at 
the recollection. 

“ How it stormed ! ” continued the other, “ were 
you not frightened at my sudden appearance ? ” 

“ I was somewhat surprised,” said Paul mechan- 


66 


PAUL REDDING. 


ically, striving to avoid giving a pang to the feel- 
ings of the poor man. 

14 Yes, you \yere surprised ! and very reasonably 
thought me mad, no doubt.” 

44 Indeed, sir, — ” 

44 Make no apology, Paul,” interrupted the other, 
44 make no apology ; you could n’t have thought me 
more mad than I really was ; — yes, it was a burn- 
ing fit of the direst madness. But tell me, Paul, 
what did I talk about ? ” 

44 Indeed, I can hardly recollect,” replied the 
youth, 44 but you complained somewhat about evil 
spirits that haunted you.” 

44 Was that all ? ” said Fitful, again cautiously 
looking over his shoulder. 44 Did n’t I speak any 
thing of him: I mean of an old man, eh ? ” And 
he gazed wildly in Paul’s face, as the young man, 
rather hesitatingly, replied , 44 yes.” 

44 What was it, Paul ? what was it ? ” and he 
grasped the young man tightly by the arm. 

44 You said something of an old man that stood 
looking over your shoulder, I believe.” 

44 Was that all ? — all ? ” asked Fitful, eagerly. 

44 Yes, all that I can remember,” replied Paul. 

The poor man laughed hysterically for a moment, 
but suddenly settled down into a gloomy, thoughtful 
mood. At last he said in a low and melancholy 
voice, 44 There are dangerous things that assail us 
when our backs are turned — evils that meet us 
face to face we can manfully combat ; but slander 


PAUL REDDING. 


67 


and the tiptoe assassin at our backs, are more to be 
feared than a legion of foes standing before us. I 
could boldly meet and grapple with flesh and blood 
like myself ; but my greatest and nearest enemy is 
not tangible ; it is here — here — ” (he pressed his 
finger on his forehead, as he spoke.) “ Yes, 
Paul, it is here. Imagination makes such cowards 
of us all, that we fear the immaterial shadow which 
the mind projects much more than the material. 
Would it were not so. I would not have you think, 
Paul, that I am usually the miserable thing that you 
saw me a few evenings since. No ! that was one 
of my worst fits. Plow the evil fiends haunted me 
that night ! I strayed off to the woods and hills ; 
but still I was haunted. Every sound became 
terrible ! It seemed as though the heavens thun- 
dered only to speak of me ; the watch-dogs at the 
farm-houses, far and near, seemed only to howl 
and bark, because I was prowling through the 
woods like a thief. Each rustling leaf whispered 
something of the thing I least wished to hear. 
Every branch that broke beneath my footstep gave 
vent to a horrible tell-tale voice. As I sat trem- 
bling on the ledges of rocks, I dared not to lift my 
eyes upward, lest I should behold a ghastly demon 
looking down into my face. The boughs, that 
swayed back and forth in the storm, seemed to be 
long arms and hands, that strove to grasp me. The 
trees appeared to lake fiendish shapes, and to link 
their long, lank fingers together ; they nodded their 


68 


PAUL BEDDING. 


heads, jeering at me as they danced around, and 
their ragged beards floated wildly on the wind. 
The solitude was more populous than the habitations 
of man, and I fled from it ; yes, Paul, from such 
terrors as these was I striving to escape when I 
rushed so wildly in the bar-room of the village inn. 
Oh, Paul, Paul, as you cherish hopes for the bright 
things of earth, and the brighter things of heaven, 
never, never, let your passions direct your hand or 
tongue to do aught that shall sow the nettle-seeds 
of remorse in the fair bed of conscience ! ” Fit- 
ful’s descriptions of these fantasies were not without 
their effect upon the nerves of the youth ; nor was 
the strange man so lost amid the recollections of 
his past terrors as to escape observing this ; but on 
the contrary, he found it prudent to conceal as 
much as possible the workings of his own imagina- 
tion, and change the conversation to some topic of 
a less exciting nature. 

“ We will talk no more of these things,” said 
Fitful, striving to appear as calm as possible. 
“And now that I think of it,” continued he, “ what 
do you propose doing in this great city ? ” 

“ Indeed, I have not the faintest idea,” replied 
Paul. 

“You will excuse the liberty, my young friend,” 
said Fitful, “ but I judge, as a matter of course, that 
the purse of a youth, who is seeking his fortune, is 
not over-full, and I suppose that you would like 
some employment immediately, if you could pro- 
cure it ? ” 


PAUL REDDING. 


69 


“ You speak truly,” answered Paul, unhesitating- 
ly ; “I should be glad of any situation that would 
give me an honest living.” 

“ I think,” said Fitful, “ that I can help you to a 
place that may suit you for the present, until you 
find some employment that will be more agreeable 
to your inclination.” 

“ 1 would regard it as a great favor,” replied the 
young man. 

“ There are those,” continued the other, as a 
scowl gathered on his brow, “ there are those who 
are under obligations to me, that perhaps would be 
glad of your services.” 

“ I wish it may prove so,” answered Paul. 

“ Prove so ! ” reiterated Fitful, with an angry 
stare ; “ prove so ! I tell you, Paul, they dare not 
refuse me! — that is,” continued he, suddenly 
checking his vehemence, “ I think they will not — 
I am quite certain they will not ; or, if they do, no 
matter, you can call to-morrow morning and ascer- 
tain for yourself. In the mean time, allow me to 
ask what are your plans for to-night? ” 

“ How do you mean ? ” said Paul. 

“ What 1 mean, is this : do you stop at the tavern, 
to-night ?•” 

I see no other alternative,” said Paul, hesitating- 
ly ; “ but to be plain with you, I have been driven 
to my wit’s end to know what I should do in my 
present case. I was in hopes that one day’s search 
would procure me some employment ; but I have 


70 


PAUL REDDING. 


been sorely disappointed ; and to tell you the truth, 
I have not the means to pay for my lodging at the 
inn, should I go there.” As Paul stammered out 
this, Fitful’s face relaxed almost to a smile, as near 
indeed as he ever came to smiling in his calmer 
moments ; and he said, “I am almost selfish enough 
to be glad of it ! ” 

“ Indeed ! ” answered Paul, good-naturedly, 
“ why so ? ” 

“ Because I may have the pleasure of providing 
for you to-night; my only regret is,” as he spoke 
he cast a sad look around the room, “ my only 
regret is, that I have no better accommodations to 
afford you.” 

“ Were that all,” answered the other, “ you need 
give yourself no uneasiness on that score.” 

“ That is all,” replied Fitful, “ and believe me, 
Paul, nothing now could give me greater happiness 
than to do you a service.” 

“ Thank you,” said the youth, with heart-felt 
gratitude ; “ I am exceedingly obliged to you, and I 
would accept your kind offer, were it not but for 
one thing.” 

“ What is that, pray ? ” 

“ You will excuse me for saying so ; but if that 
is your bed, as I suppose it is, it seems to be hardly 
large enough to accommodate two of us.” 

“ Do n’t trouble yourself about that, Paul,” said 
Fitful, with a sigh; “if there is bed enough for 
you, that is all that is necessary. I never lie down 
at night — never sleep unless it be in the broad 


PAUL REDDING. 


71 


daylight, for reasons that you may one day know ; 
as it is, for the present — no matter; there is your 
bed, when you are ready betake yourself to it, and 
do n’t mind me.” The strange man’s manner was 
so decisive, that Paul deemed it prudent to make 
no farther remonstrance, but thanked him and talked 
of other matters. Such was the young man’s con- 
fidence in his mysterious friend, that at an early 
hour he made no hesitation to retire to rest ; and 
notwithstanding the strangeness of his companion, 
or the singular appearance of the apartment, without 
entertaining the slightest scruples, he permitted 
himself to fall into that state of half-unconscious- 
ness, when the mind takes no cognizance of out- 
ward things, but wanders almost as free as the dis- 
embodied spirit, mingling in scenes, and calling up 
incidents that otherwise seemed buried in oblivion. 
In such a state it would seem that the claims of 
mortality were, for the time, cast off, and the soul 
was permitted to wander, for awhile, in that fair 
country, where the past and the future are spread, 
like pleasant fields, on either side of the present. 
In the one, the spirit becomes a child again, and 
rambles by familiar brooks and trees, while flowers, 
birds, and butterflies, welcome it as their natural 
playmate. In the other, it walks amid, poetic 
structures, through gorgeous temples, where 

Music is the breath of thought, and flows 

Like gold and silver light throughout all space — 

Where buds and flowers are but the gems of love 
And truth, a record of all holy things, 

The language of the soul ! ” 


72 


PAUL REDDING. 


And who may say that such are not the realities of 
the land of spirits ? 

From some cause or other, perhaps stung by 
some cruel change in his dream, Paul suddenly 
awoke ; and casting his gaze to the opposite corner 
of the room, he beheld Fitful sitting at a small 
table, bending very intently over some manuscripts, 
in which he seemed ever and anon to be making 
corrections. The rattling of the straw mattress, as 
the young man changed his position, betrayed the 
movement to his strange companion, who, as if 
caught in some criminal act, grasped the papers 
hurriedly together, and thrust them into his bosom. 
Then taking up the half-filled lamp, he approached 
the bed, but seeing that Paul’s eyes were closed, 
he returned to the table, and again busied himself 
with the papers. A second time did the youth fall 
into that state of half-unconsciousness. A motley 
dream of consistencies and inconsistencies now took 
possession of his brain. At one time he thought 
that his mother stood weeping over him, and he had 
no power to speak to her — how young and beauti- 
ful she looked ! Yes, as beautiful and young as 
when he, a fair-haired, happy child, ran laughing 
to his fair-haired, happy mother. But soon there 
came a melancholy scene, where his father appear- 
ed, a tall, dark-browed man, who smoothed the 
hair from the forehead of his son, and whispered 
in his ear, 41 farewell ! ” 

Again Paul started from his sleep, and he beheld 


PAUL REDDING. 


73 


Fitful standing over him, gazing in his face, and 
smoothing aside the hair from the young man’s 
brow, as his father had done in the dream. 

“ I was only looking to see if you slept well,” 
said Fitful, and he turned away. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

“ With lips depressed as he were meek, 

Himself unto himself he sold : 
***** 

Quiet, dispassionate, and cold, 
***** 

With chiseled features, clear and sleek.” 

Tennyson. 

On the following morning, our young hero sal- 
lied forth to seek his fortune ; but, first of all, by 
the advice and directions of Fitful, to seek the 
residence of Nathaniel Munson. He traversed 
street after street, like all strangers, taking the 
most circuitous route to find a place to which the 
simplest straight forward course would have led 
him. He had arrived, however, almost to his place 
of destination, when he suddenly stumbled against 
his friend, Mr. Christopher Scrapp, the caricaturist. 
“ Halloa ! ” said that gentleman, with a stare of 
recognition, “ you are a more perfect picture than 
ever ! Come, step into my studio a moment ; you 
shall have the privilege of examining my produc- 
tions, free of expense, unless, sir, (and as I look at 
you again, you have an eye to appreciate the fine 
5 


74 


PAUL REDDING. 


arts,) you may be inclined to become the possessor 
of something in my line.” 

Paul followed the artist, and they entered a dark 
little room on the third floor of a very old, rusty 
building. The sanctum where Mr. Scrapp gave 
birth to his immense ideas, was a remarkably 
sombre place, the light being only admitted through 
a small oval aperture ; and the air was strongly 
scented with that pleasantest of all perfumes, the 
stale smoke of a cigar. Around the walls hung 
the productions of the renowned caricaturist. Here 
was a figure, almost as tall as the spade he held, 
standing in a pair of immense shoes; the artist in- 
formed Paul that that picture was symbolical of the 
true friends of their country, who, with their great 
understandings, were about to dig the grave of the 
administration. Paul suggested that he supposed 
the adjoining sketch, a very squat figure, repre- 
sented as standing on his head, was symbolical of 
the rise of great understandings. “ No,” said the 
artist ; “ I thought you would recognise that ; not 
to know that celebrated satire, sir, argues yourself 
— hem — of course it does! That picture has 
struck terror into the opposite party ; yes, sir, they 
grew pale with horror ! It was quite terrible, I 
assure you. The president offered me one of the 
best offices in his control, if I would only consent 
to withhold those withering productions, in future, 
from the public. But, no, sir, I am not to be 
bought; no, sir, I am true, true. I feel it here, 


PAUL REDDING. 


75 


here in my heart, that I am true, — not to be 
bought.” Here Mr. Scrapp knocked at his breast 
several times, as if he would have his heart speak 
for itself, and establish its truth beyond the shadow 
of a doubt ; but the knocking only called up a 
cough, and Mr. Scrapp changed the subject. 

“ Here are the productions of my pupils ; but 
none of them, you will observe, equal mine in 
grace of outline, or beauty of execution. One man 
only out of a hundred — yes, I might say out of a 
thousand — has the capabilities to become an artist. 
I flatter myself that I happen to be that lucky one ! 
Still, it is necessary for any man to study the art, 
very necessary ! My system of teaching is very 
remarkable ; it is simple, expeditious, yet complete. 
You would be surprised to see with what facility 
my instructions are given ; perspective, architecture, 
and the human figure are all taught at one lesson ! 
The young gentleman or lady, as the case may be 
— I prefer the latter — sits down and takes a pencil. 
I take his or her hand in mine ; and, without the 
least premeditation, make a spot in the middle of 
the paper, thus ; that is the point of sight ; now I 
draw two lines from the spot to the left corner, 
then two to the right, thus ; at this corner I make, 
with a few hasty touches, a house, and there, in the 
distance, another — a very small house — thus; 
here I draw the figure of a man — the man is a 
little too tall — add another story to the house, thus ; 
that makes it ! There, sir, is a composition com- 


I 


76 PAUL REDDING. 

prising all the elements of art, and executed with- 
out the least premeditation ! By this time, the 
pupil is master of perspective, architecture, and the 
human figure. Astonishing, is n’t it ? ” 

“ Very ! ” replied Paul. 

“ Peculiar ? ” 

“ Quite so.” 

“ And original ! ” 

“ Undoubtedly ! ” 

“ Permit me to examine your head. Perceptive 
organs, immense ; constructiveness, large ; destruc- 
tiveness, very large ; mirthfulness, full ; color, 
ditto! Young man, you are an artist by nature! 
fact, I assure you ! Put yourself under my direc- 
tion, and you may yet astonish the world.” Paul 
thanked Mr. Scrapp for his good opinion, and ob- 
served, that if he could find sufficient leisure from 
other employments, hereafter, nothing would give 
him greater delight than to pursue the study of 
art. “ If I succeed,” said the young man, “ in my 
present mission to a gentleman that I am in search 
of, perhaps I may call on you again. Can you tell 
me where I may find the establishment of Nathaniel 
Munson ? ” 

“ Old stingy Nat, I think you mean ? O, yes, 
he keeps just below here. Drop into the meanest- 
looking shop that you can find ; you can ’t mistake 
the place.” 

“ Thank you, sir,” said Paul, as he took his 
leave, not a little damped in his hopes, and bent his 


PAUL REDDING. 


77 


steps to the place before mentioned. He found, 
somewhat to his surprise, that Nathaniel Munson 
was the same little shrivelled-up Quaker that had 
attracted his attention, a few evenings before, in 
the restaurateur. Paul handed him a note from 
Fitful, and the old man, without taking any par- 
ticular notice of the youth, opened it, and glancing 
hastily over the contents, ejaculated, in a dissatis- 
fied tone, “ Humph, boy, art thou a great eater? ” 
and he peered with his mean little gray eyes very 
sharply at the youth, as he waited for an answer. 

“ Indeed, sir, I cannot answer that question,” 
replied Paul, with a smile, “ for I am ignorant of 
what your ideas of a great eater are.” 

“ How many meals does thee require per day ? 
how many ? ” 

“ Three, usually,” was the decisive answer. 

“ Three ! what extravagance ! two are plenty, 
young man; and remember, the short days are 
coming on ; breakfast and supper will be quite 
sufficient. Let me see — lodging, too ! Does thee 
not think that asking too much ? ” 

“ No, sir ! ” said Paul, very emphatically. 

“ Very well ; what is thy Christian name ? ” 

“ Paul, sir.” 

“Hem — a very good scripture name, that; no 
doubt thee is honest. John, show this young man 
his duty. There, get thee to work, boy; I shall 
love thee, if thee is honest and industrious.” 

From the expression of Mr. Munson’s face, just 


78 


TAUL REDDING. 


at that moment, you might have imagined that he 
loved the boy already very much ! and would, in 
future, take care that the youth was provided for ! 

“ So, so, Mr. Paul,” exclaimed the before-men- 
tioned John, “ old Broad-Brim has found somebody 
to come to his terms at last, has he? Well, I’m 
blessed glad o’ that ! But how on ’arth did you 
strike a bargain with the old parchment ? ” 

“ Why? ” asked Paul, affecting some surprise. 

“Why! Lord bless you, you don’t know the 
old ’un, then ! I tell you what, my friend, that old 
skin-flint used to belong to a society called the 
4 Penny Catcher Tight Grip Club.’ The leanest, 
meanest member was always entitled to the chair ; 
of course, old Munson always had it. But now — 
and he grows very melancholy and lonely, some- 
times, to think of it — he is the only surviving mem- 
ber ; all the others died of starvation ; but bless 
you, they hadn’t such constitutions as our old 
man ’s got — there aint no die to him — he ’s too* 
mean to pay the debt o’ natur. What ! old Split-fip 
ever die ? No, no ! he ’ll dwindle down to a 
shadow, a very small, mean shadow, and then slip 
into some rich gentleman’s coffin, and enjoy the 
luxury of a handsome burial, all at somebody else’ 
expense ! 

“But I reckon you haint seen little Edith, yet? 
of course not. Well, to my thinking, there aint a 
girl in town a touch to Edith Munson. Her hair is 
light, her eyes blue ; not a bright sky blue, nor 


PAUL REDDING. 


79 


dark blue, but a kind o’ twilight blue. They do n’t 
bore right through one, as some eyes do, making 
one wish they were dead, but they kind o’ melt 
right in so tenderly, that it makes a fellow feel so 
happy he wants to kiss all creation. That ’s what 
I calls being in love.” 

When Paul repaired to the residence of Nathaniel 
Munson, that evening, he was conducted, by the 
above-mentioned Edith, (who, in every particular, 
fully came up to the glowing description that John 
had given of her,) into a little room, which, al- 
though meanly furnished, was extremely neat and 
clean. The young man observed that preparations 
had been made to receive him to tea, and he was 
not displeased with the appearance which things 
presented. 

“ Take a seat, if you please, sir. Father did not 
tell me that you were coming, until a few moments 
since, or perhaps we might have been a little better 
prepared,” said the maiden, as she hurried away to 
bring in the tea. “ Well,” thought Paul, “ this is 
not so bad as I had anticipated.” 

“ I see,” said the same sweet voice of little 
Edith, as she filled the young man’s cup, “ I see 
that your attention is attracted by the strange ap- 
pearance of that poor woman who stands gazing in 
at the window. You will please not to be aston- 
ished at any thing which she may do. Poor crea- 
ture ! she has had a deal of trouble ; has been 
deranged for many years, but is entirely harmless. 


80 


PAUL REDDING. 


We call her. 4 good Mary.’ She has a kind heart, 
poor thing, notwithstanding that she acts somewhat 
strangely at times ; but you will soon get used to 
that, and not mind her. She has lived with us ever 
since my own mother died. Indeed, I believe I 
should play the child and weep, if Mary should 
leave us. She has always been so very kind to 
me, that I think I love her quite as well as I could 
my own mother.” 

44 Ah,” answered Paul, with a sigh ; 44 is there, 
then, any one in the world who can fill the place 
of a mother ? ” 

44 Indeed,” replied Edith, while a tear trembled 
in her eye, 44 1 do n’t know ; I have scarcely any 
recollections of my own mother ; but I do n’t think 
I could have loved her much better than I love 
poor Mary.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

Oh how he burned with fierce, poetic fire ! 

Himself a satyr, and his verse satire. 

An on. 

The day following Paul Redding’s installation at 
Mr. Munson’s, he entered as a student the sanctum 
of Mr. Scrapp. He found that gentleman engaged 
in transferring from his well-stored imagination a 
human figure ; for so he called it. 

44 Young gentleman,” said Mr. Scrapp, 44 give me 


PAUL REDDING. 


81 


your attention for a moment. Here is a human 
figure. I am about to explain to you some of the 
fundamental principles of the art. You observe 
that I am not trammeled with any of those super- 
fluous rules in drawing which Sir Joshua and others 
have laid down as the standard. No, sir, they were 
all humbugs ! What did they know more about 
the human figure than I do ? Was nature any 
more nature then than it is now ? Hang their 
rules, they always put me out, as Fuseli once said ; 
a remark that in my opinion was sufficient of itself 
to immortalize the author. So I say, hang their 
rules ; I have found a system of my own, in which 
you will observe that I am neither a slave to nature 
nor the old masters. In my rules for drawing a 
figure, as in this case, the head forms one sixteenth 
part of the body ; the arms, when extended, are 
half as long again as the whole length of the per- 
son ; while the hand is half the length of the arm ; 
and every foot is a foot and a half. You see that 
my system is at once simple, striking, and original ! ” 

“ Very ! ” replied Paul. 

“ But, hark ! ” said Mr. Scrapp ; “ somebody is at 
the door. Go and see who it is ; remember, if it is 
a suspicious-looking man, a collector, I mean, do n’t 
admit him ; I ’m out ! ” And he slipped very 
dexterously behind a screen, while Paul opened the 
door. 

“ Is Scrapp in ? ” said an ill-looking man, with 
very red whiskers and rank beard. Paul thought 


82 


PAUL REDDING. 


that the stranger was rather suspicious-looking, but 
would n’t lie even to shield the renowned carica- 
turist ; therefore he replied, u Yes, sir, he is in, but 
I believe is engaged.” 

“ What do I care,” said the man, walking boldly 
into the room. “ He is very suspicious-looking,” 
thought Paul, “ but it could n’t be helped.” 

“Ah, my dear Gall, I ’m rejoiced to see you ! ” 
said Scrapp, stepping forth from the screen. 

“ I ’ve a job for you, Scrapp,” said Mr. Gall. 

“ I ’m delighted to hear it ! what sort of a job ? 
Any thing in this way, eh ? ” as he spoke, he flour- 
ished his pencil in the air, with great significance. 

“ You sometimes write satires, eh ? ” 

“ Oh, frequently.” 

“ Very well, sir, I want a few caustic lines em- 
bodying the ideas that you will find on this scrap of 
paper. Do it, sir, and five dollars shall be your 
reward! Make that fellow who dares to write 
poetry wish he had never been born ! do it, and 
five dollars will reward your labors ! ” 

“ Yes ! ” said Mr. Scrapp, making the late pro- 
duction of his pencil fly across the room. “ To-day 
is Saturday. Let me see, say on Monday ; yes, you 
shall have it on Monday.” 

“ Very well, sir ; only make the fellow wish that 
he had never been born, that ’s all ! ” 

“ Never fear ; I ’ll do it ! ” 

“ On Monday ? ” 

“ Yes, Monday ! ” 


PAUL REDDING. 


83 


“ Good day, Scrapp.” 

“ Good bye, Gall.” 

Mr. Scrapp lost no time in seating himself before 
a piece of virgin paper ; and he was soon plunged 
in the most profound meditation. For a long time 
did he remain in that situation, without giving any 
signs of animation ; at Jast, however, his lips began 
to move, as if he communed inwardly, with spirits, 
(very likely he did.) Paul was strongly reminded 
of a line by Wordsworth, 

“And Johnny’s lips, they burr, burr, burr ! ” 

In the course of time, the word poem escaped 
from the mouth of the inspired satirist ; faintly, at 
first, but, as the storm thickened, it grew louder and 
louder, until, at last, burst out, “ Poem ! poem ! 
poem ! hide your works ! Oh, never, never, nev — er 

— blood and thunder ! ” cried he ; at the same time, 
striking his pencil on the table with great despera- 
tion, he addressed Paul, saying, “ Come, young 
man, what rhymes with po ? ” The youth answer- 
ed, “flow, go, wo — ” 

“ Stop ! stop ! ” cried the other, eagerly ; “ not 
so fast. I want time to think as you go along. 
Now for it ! ” Paul continued, “ Sow, row, throw 

— ” “ There, now, hold up a minute, will you ! ” 

Mr. Scrapp looked at the floor, scratched his head, 
and bit his nails ; then turning his inspired orbs 
towards that little oval streak of daylight, he ex- 
claimed,-. — 


84 


PAUL REDDING. 


“ Whene’er you undertake to do a poem, 

Hide your works, Oh do n’t you never throw ’em 
Out — in — before — ” 

But it was no use! The enraged satirist caught 
his hat, and rushed out of the room. He dashed 
down Second street, and plunged headlong into a 
coffee-house, where he was pretty certain of finding 
his friend, Mr. Inkleton ; he seized and dragged 
that poetical gentleman precipitously away ; nor 
did he attempt any explanation, until he succeeded 
in thrusting the poet, head first, into his studio. 
After dismissing Paul, those two hopefuls sat in 
solemn conclave for twenty-four hours, uninterrupt- 
ed by any one during the whole, if we except a boy, 
that on Saturday afternoon delivered to them a well- 
filled demijohn. Mr. Inkleton, it is said, spoiled 
several quires of paper with his immense labors ; 
and, on Monday morning, precisely at three o’clock, 
kicked the empty jug across the room, with an 
imprecation, and read, to the infinite delight of his 
companion, some lines, which, in the course of a 
few days, appeared in one of the leading papers, 
and created a great sensation in the select circle of 
three persons ; namely, Mr. Gall and the co-authors. 


CHAPTER X. 


“ My mother’s form in dim outline 
Is floating near me now, 

I feel her fond arms round me twine, 

Her breath upon my brow.” 

Mart Mather. 

Several weeks had already elapsed since Paul 
had taken up his residence in the house of Nathan- 
iel Munson. One evening, as the twilight was 
gathering fast, he and Edith sat together at the 
casement of the little parlor, that looked out upon 
the street. He had been making a sketch of her, 
as she sat reading. The liquid blue eyes cast down 
beneath their long flaxen fringes, the delicate oval 
face, from which the hair was gathered simply 
back, the small dimpled hand laid upon the white 
page, and added to all this the plain Quaker attire, 
formed a subject worthy of a more skilful pencil 
than that which now attempted to transcribe it. 
This, Paul was sensible of, and he no sooner finish- 
ed the drawing, than he destroyed it. 

“ Edith,” said he, “ think you I shall ever be an 
artist ? ” 

“ Certainly I do, Paul, otherwise I would advise 
you to abandon all thoughts of art, and go imme- 
diately to hard' labor.” 

“ To hard labor, indeed ! think you that the 
artist lives the life of luxury and ease ! Oh, no, 
Edith. To pursue art, is to pursue early toil and 


86 


PAUL REDDING. 


late watching, and too often obscurity, poverty and 
want. The artist must grow pale over his pencil, 
he must gird himself well for the long ordeal, if he 
would be a great artist. But then how ennobling 
the ambition, to pursue a great object through years 
of perpetual darkness, to grapple even with the 
lean hounds of poverty, and come out at last bright, 
though worn down with the conflict ! The thing is 
achieved ! and what is the sacrifice of this poor 
mortality when compared with immortality ! What 
though Raffael’s body fell away in early life, in his 
works he still lives, and must live through all time. 
How much shorter is the existence of the centena- 
rian that has lived without any exalted aim, who 
dies, is buried and forgotten ! ” 

“ Is art, then, so difficult ? ” said Edith, with an 
expression of terror. 

“ So indeed it would appear from the biography 
of almost all that have ever excelled in it.” 

“And so fatal ? ” 

“ Not always necessarily fatal ; many have lived 
to be quite aged, the fates, as it were, allowing 
them more time wherein to achieve their greatness. 
The brightest blaze is the soonest exhausted.” 

“And you intend to endure all these things that 
you have named for the sake of painting pic- 
tures ? ” 

“ Yes, Edith, such has always been my deter- 
mination.” 

“I have not the least doubt of your abilities, 


PAUL REDDING. 


87 


Paul,” said Edith, with a sigh ; “I think youcapable 
enough ; but — ” 

“ Well, proceed, I shall be glad to hear your 
objections.” 

“ I think that you might be so comfortable and 
happy in some simpler pursuit.” 

“ Pardon me, Edith, for differing with you on 
that point. What is comfort or happiness ? It is 
to gratify the cravings of our highest nature, which 
is the soul, and the commands of the soul are im- 
perative ; disregard them and we must be unhappy; 
obey them and we are rewarded even in the act.” 

“ That is very true, I did n’t think of it before ; 
but then your enthusiasm is so strong, that you, I 
fear, are in danger of becoming too early a prey to 
it. Already I can see, or imagine that I see the 
color leaving your cheeks ; and every morning the 
empty lamp tells a tale of studies protracted to a 
very late hour.” 

“ It is an old custom of mine. Reading and 
drawing have been to me, essentially a second life, 
and to resign one, it seems would be to resign both. 
Often, when a mere boy of ten or twelve, I have 
wandered away to the hills, and amid haunts where 
man seldom strayed, there would I pass the day in 
making sketches, perchance, of some peculiar tree, 
crag, waterfall, and mountain, and then amuse 
myself by fantastically weaving them into one. I 
have wandered abroad beneath the silent stars, 
through dense woods, down by level meadows, and 


88 


PAUL REDDING. 


sat on the rocks beside the river, to listen to the 
thousand beautiful voices that darkness and wild- 
ness only have. And none but those who have 
done the same, know any thing of the bewitching 
spell of night, <or the enchantment of solitude.” 

“ But come, Paul,” said Edith, “ you have never 
told me any thing of your parents. Talk to me of 
your mother. I am sure that you must still love 
her memory.” 

The young man leant his forehead on his hand, 
and mused for some moments ; not, however, to 
conjure up some scene of his childhood where his 
mother appeared prominent, for he remembered 
but one wherein he could yet call up that loved 
face to the eye of memory. 

“ There is but one incident that I can recollect,” 
said Paul, at last, with a sigh, “ in which I can yet 
distinguish my mother, and that scene is too pain- 
ful ; you would shudder to hear it.” 

“ Pray go on,” said Edith, eagerly. 

“ It was a dark, stormy night,” continued Paul. 
“ The winter winds were howling fearfully around 
our country habitation ; but a broad sheet of flame 
went up the ample old-fashioned fireplace, and cast 
a feverish glare over the room. My mother, I can 
see her yet, passing to and fro with the little babe 
in her arms, preparing the evening meal. She 
was not tall, but yet was slender, and, as I recol- 
lect, quite good-looking. On one side of the fire- 
place sat my father, while, at the opposite side, 


PAUL REDDING. 


89 


stood a short, dark, ill-looking man, of whom all 
seemed to hold a continual dread. An iron hook 
supplied the place of his right arm, which had been 
amputated at the elbow. The prominence of his 
cheek-bones and jagged brows formed between 
them deep valleys, wherein were situated two 
fiendish eyes, that seemed to shrink from the light 
as it were their deadliest enemy. Long, thin, 
straggling locks of hair, sprinkled with gray, hung 
down about his face ; and, in short, he was such a 
character as you would tremble to meet with in 
any unfrequented place. How distinctly I can still 
see my dear mother passing back and forth through 
the apartment. And all of the furniture of that one 
room, too, as it appeared on that night; the old 
muskets, powder-horns, and many other similar 
articles, hanging or leaning against the wall, all 
glistening in the fire light, and projecting their long 
shadows ; it seems, in effect, like a picture by Rem- 
brant. 

“ When the supper was spread upon the table, 
Fin, (for such was the ill-looking man’s name,) sat 
himself greedily to work, and appropriated the 
different articles of food to himself, at a most aston- 
ishing rate. My father rested his elbow on the 
back of the chair, his chin on his hand, and mutter- 
ed something inaudible between his teeth. 

“ Fin stopped for a moment, and fixed his fiend- 
ish eye on my father, and with a sarcastic smile, 
exclaimed, 1 What ’s the matter, eh ? have you lost 
your appetite ? ’ 


90 


PAUL REDDING. 


“ My father made no answer ; but turned his 
back to Fin, who, looking around at me, met the 
indignant gaze of my mother. He smiled more 
hideously than ever ; and raising his ponderous eye- 
brows, beckoned me to his side. 

“ ‘ Come here, Paul,’ said he, ‘come here ! ’ his 
evil eye was upon me, and I could not but obey. 
Reaching forth the iron hook, he drew me close to 
his side. 

“ ‘ What is the matter, Paul ? ’ ejaculated he, ‘ are 
you afraid of me, eh ? ’ and he put his face close to 
mine, repeating ‘ are you afraid, Paul ? ’ I turned 
my head away, and answered, ‘ yes.’ 

“ ‘ I thought so,’ replied he, with a fiendish smile, 
‘ afraid of Fin, afraid he ’ll hurt you. Who taught 
you to fear me, eh ? ’ As he spoke, he .cast his 
malicious eyes back and forth, alternately, from my 
father to my mother. ‘ Yes,’ continued he, ‘ they 
taught you to fear, and to hate Fin ! They hate 
Fin ! ’ as he said this, he laughed through his clench- 
ed teeth, and rubbed the iron hook, fiendishly, 
across the table. ‘ Oh, how they hate Fin ! ’ cried 
he again, in a voice that startled even my father, 
who, with eyes flashing with anger, turned abruptly 
around, and stared Fin full in the face. 

“ ‘ He hates Fin,’ screamed the ugly man, and, 
at the same time, pointed the hook towards my 
father, to designate who he meant. ‘ Fin knows 
too much ! he has a secret ! a dreadful secret ! ’ 

“ ‘ Fin ! ’ cried my father, mounting to his feet, 


PAUL REDDING. 


91 


and grasping a chair, ‘ Fin! you infernal dog, if you 
don’t hold your tongue, I ’ll — ’ 4 Murder me!’ 

screamed Fin, finishing the sentence. 4 Murder ! 
ha, ha, ha ! I ’ve got a secret, mind you ! ’ And 
Fin leaned over the table, and leered up in my 
father’s face. 4 The old man, he was asleep, he 
never woke after, did he ? The money, too, the 
chest! ha, ha, ha ! ’ My father’s eyes flashed, and 
bursting with fury, he hurled the chair at the head 
of Fin, who, stunned by the blow, rolled with a 
fearful howl to the floor. 

44 4 Oh, what have you done ? ’ cried my mother. 

4 Done ! ’ ejaculated my father, 4 killed a villain! ’ ” 

Just at this point of the story, Paul and Edith 
were both startled by a heavy crash at their side ; 
and suddenly looking around, they beheld the poor 
house-keeper, Mary, with her hands thrown up, 
staring at them, seeming entirely unconscious of 
the half a dozen broken dishes at her feet. 44 What 
in the world ’s the matter ? ” cried Edith. Poor 
Mary, as if struggling with her senses, at last made 
out to exclaim, 44 Why ! why ! I was just thinking 
what an ugly man that Fin was ; ” and continuing 
to murmur strange words to herself, she began very 
coolly to collect the fragments of Mr. Munson’s 
best tea-plates ; and gathering up the very smallest 
pieces, she .went and deposited them carefully in 
the closet, as if they were yet as valuable as ever. 


CHAPTER XI. 


« So cunningly the miser plans his plot, 

The de’il must smile upon his protege, 

And leave him midst his own dark villainy, 

Nor wish a meaner hypocrite to hold 
The agency of hell ! ”, 

Dayton. 

Poor Mary, as she was familiarly called, was 
a most singular creature ; her countenance invari- 
ably wore a vacant expression, and all of her 
movements were so uncertain, many of them un- 
meaning, that they seemed to be directed rather by 
a dim instinct, than by any gleams of reason. 
Such had been her character for years ; long, blank 
years they must haye been to that almost inanimate 
creature. Let those who crushed the flower tell 
how many dreary years it had been since they left 
the leafless stalk to sway listlessly in the winds ! 
But of late, it seemed as though a light had been 
struggling to break through the mists that shrouded 
her poor mind; and she moved somewhat less 
methodically, her actions appeared to be more the 
effect of impulse, and her gaze grew less vacant. 
This change, though but a slight one indeed, 
escaped not the observation of little Edith ; nor was 
it unnoticed by Fitful, the melancholy state of 
whose own mind but ill fitted him to discover the 
wavering of another. But step aside, poor Mary, 
for awhile ; step aside, thou broken-hearted thing ! 


PAUL REDDING. 


93 


while we usher upon the stage those who, with all 
their quantum of reason, are far from being thy 
peers ! whose souls are bound to earth by a thou- 
sand chains of selfishness and guilt, whilst thine 
stands waiting, as it has done this many a day, to 
depart (when the angel shall beckon) for its bright 
home. 

Some hours had elapsed after the recital of 
Paul’s story, when two men glided cautiously into 
the residence of Nathaniel Munson, and ascending 
a couple of dark flights of stairs, passed into a little 
room, and carefully fastened the door behind them. 
One of these persons was a short, stout man, of 
about sixty years of age ; his ill-shapen features 
were dark and weatherbeaten ; he wore a seaman’s 
jacket that had evidently been made for a much 
taller individual ; his broad checkered collar was 
thrown open, displaying a short, muscular neck, 
and his appearance altogether gave strong indica- 
tions that his vocation was that of a marine. 

64 There, stand still by the door till I strike a 
light,” said his companion. When the stump of a 
tallow candle, that was stuck in a little rusty candle- 
stick, was lighted, the dim blaze flickered on the 
shrivelled features of the old Quaker, Nathaniel 
Munson. There was a grim look of satisfaction on 
his countenance as he passed a backless chair to 
his companion and invited him to be seated, but 
that expression gave place to another, a little less 
satisfied, when the stranger, with a curse, kicked 


94 


PAUL REDDING. 


the chair aside, and mounted himself on the top of 
an old, strongly-bound chest, and, with a malicious 
grin, rapped on the lid with the iron hook that was 
appended to his right arm in lieu of a hand, and 
exclaimed, “ No, no, my old comrade, rickety 
crickets and chairs for land-lubbers, but give me a 
sea^ on the old chest that looks rusty on the outside 
but bright inside; it does one good to be near it, 
you know, comrade ; ah, ha, ha, ho, ho ! ” Here 
the old sailor rapped so loud on the lid with the 
hook, and glanced at the Quaker with so much 
significance, that Munson trembled with terror, and 
begged him to be quiet, lest he might alarm the 
house. 

“ You ’re afraid that I might disturb some of these 
bright little fellows in here, too, aint you, eh? ” 

“ O no, no, no ! ” exclaimed the Quaker, with 
great earnestness ; “ there is n’t any thing there, 
nothing in the world but rubbish. Besides, thee 
knows (and here he assumed a very meek face) I 
am a poor man, not worth a cent when my debts 
are paid — not a cent. Thee knows that my purse- 
strings have always been too loose to keep money ; 
think what sums I have paid thee, and made my- 
self very poor to do it, very poor ! Thee knows I 
am thy only friend, and am willing to do a little 
yet, a very little, for I am poor ! ” 

At the conclusion of this speech, Munson puck- 
ered his face up into the meanest expression pos- 
sible, dropped it into his neck-cloth, and peered at 


PAUL REDDING. 


95 


his companion through his straggling eyebrows, 
while the other replied, “Curse your 4 thee’s,’ and 
your meek Quaker face ; drop ’em at once, for you 
always mean some bloody rascality when you take 
to ’em ; so talk up like a man, and tell me what 
your ’re a going to give to get rid of this boy ? ” 

44 Not so loud ! ” said Munson, imploringly. 

“ Well, then, how much ? ” exclaimed the other, 
in the loudest whisper possible. 

44 Could n’t thee do it for old acquaintance’ sake, 
eh ? ” said the Quaker, assuming a very affectionate 
tone. 

“ O, certainly ! ” answered the sailor, with a 
fiendish grin ; “ our acquaintance has been so very 
pleasant, so bloody pleasant, and profitable to me 
in particular, you know ! ” 

44 Yes, certainly,” said Munson, drawing his chair 
nearer to the other ; 44 thee knows we have been 
like brothers ! ” 

“Yes, comrade,” was the reply, “brothers in 
bloody crimes ! And I ’ve had enough of ’em, 
unless you can talk up to a lively tune with these 
here musicians.” As he spoke, he brought a very 
loud rap on the top of the box, plainly indicating 
that he knew the nature of its contents. 

“ Well, how much ? ” inquired the Quaker. 

“ Why, let me see,” said the sailor ; “ to get him 
off, and then lose him overboard — ” 

“ Yes, yes,” ejaculated Munson, rubbing his 
hands with delight. 


96 


PAUL REDDING. 


“To get him off — that’s worth five hundred; 
and to lose him overboard — not less than five hun- 
dred more ; so we ’ll say one thousand dollars.” 

“Impossible!” answered the Quaker, quite 
crest-fallen. 

“ Very well ! ” exclaimed the other, with indif- 
ference, “ it ’d be a cheap bargain at that; but you 
know best, do as you please ; it ’s nothing to me, 
you know.” 

“ That ’s a great sum,” said Munson, contem- 
plating the old chest. 

“ Maybe the boy may call on you for a greater 
sum, one o’ these days, unless you take care of 
him,” was the answer. 

“ Ay, ay, he must be taken care of! ” ejaculated 
the Quaker. “ But then if I induce the boy to go 
with the silly notion of visiting Italy, as I have 
heard him say he would like to do when he became 
able, I shall have to put a good round sum in his 
pocket ; and I could n’t afford so much.” 

“ Pshaw ! ” exclaimed the sailor ; “ do you think 
I ’d let him go to Davy Jones with five hundred 
dollars in his wallet ? no, no ; give him that amount, 
and give me the balance, and call it a bargain. 
Do ye see, I don’t want to cheat you, or I’d let 
you buy him off the best way you could and make 
so much the more out o’ the speculation ; but I ’m 
honest, and would n’t do it with an old comrade ! ” 
As he spoke he drew himself up as if perfectly 
conscious of his superiority, and he must have 


PAUL REDDING. 


97 


looked, with that cut-throat face of his, the very- 
ideal of honesty ; none could have doubted him ; 
even Nathaniel Munson himself must have suffered 
in comparison. 

“If I succeed in this plan,” said Munson, “I 
have, then, but one more to take care of.” 

“Yes, you have one more,” answered the other, 
tapping the box rather lightly, this time. 

“ He will be your second victim,” continued the 
Quaker. 

“ You might have said the fiftieth,” replied the 
sailor, with a sneer. 

' “ Well, well, fiftieth, if you please ; but you will 
help him out of the way for the sake of an old 
grudge, eh ? ” 

“ Perhaps so.” 

“ You hate him ? ” 

“I do ; he is n’t a friend of mine, as you are, 
you know, Nat, eh?” 

“And you would — ” 

“ Yes, murder him ! ” said the man with the iron 
hook, finishing the sentence ; “ for a small con- 
sideration.” 

“ A very small one,” continued Munson, looking 
wistfully in his companion’s face. 

“Yes, I -said so,” was the reply. “And I sup- 
pose you will rest contented, having only the blood 
of three on your conscience.” 

“ No, no ! ” cried the Quaker, looking wildly at 
his companion ; “ I did n’t do it ! ” 


98 


PAUL REDDING. 


The other shrugged his shoulders significantly, 
and gazed with a malicious smile into Munson’s 
face. And he added, “ You are sure that you can 
manage the girl ? ” 

“Ay, ay, never fear; my son will help me do 
that; and for that old idiot, the woman, she doesn’t 
know enough to interfere.” 

“ Yes, comrade, you ’re right ; that son o’ yours 
’ll help you to do any thing that smacks of villainy, 
depend on’t; he’s been my mate long enough for 
that.” 

Munson peered up in the other’s face with a look 
of deep satisfaction and pride; and observed, “If 
we succeed, the property — I mean the very little 
that I have been looking to — will be secured to us, 
and no one can ever come up to dispute it.” 

“ Unless they be bloody ghosts ! ” answered the 
sailor. ■' /' 

“ Don’t, don’t talk of such ugly things!” cried 
the Quaker, with a shudder. 

“As you please, comrade,” was the reply. 
“Now that we understand each other, good night. 
But look out for ghosts, he, he ! look out for thieves, 
ho, ho ! lock it up tight, and cover your head close 
under the blankets, to-night, for there be thieves 
and ghosts about ! he, he, ho, ho ! ” 

“ Did n’t you hear a footstep on the stairs ? ” said 
Munson, trembling from head to foot. 

“ Thieves and ghosts ! ho, ho ! ” was the reply. 

The Quaker followed his companion down stairs, 


PAUL REDDING. 


99 


who went tapping his iron hook on the balusters all 
the way to the bottom, disregarding the nudging 
and coaxing of the other. And when Munson 
opened the door for him to depart, he observed a 
cloaked female, pass quickly around the corner of 
the street. That night, poor Mary arrived unex- 
pectedly at the apartment of Fiery Fitful. 


CHAPTER XII. 


st To thee, bright land, whose sunny skies 
No wintry clouds e’er vail, 

Away, away, my spirit flies 
Before the spreading sail. 

I see thy storied hills e’en now 
With purple splendors teem; 

Thy soft airs fan my spirit’s brow, — 

Land of the poet’s dream ! ” 

Mart Mather. 

The boy, that Munson was thus laboring to get 
rid of, as we have seen in the last chapter, was no 
other than Paul Redding, as may have already 
been surmised. And perhaps no scheme however 
deeply laid, could have promised better success 
than the one which the Quaker had hit upon. A 
youth, romantic in all of his feelings, buoyant with 
hopes which misfortune had failed to quell, alive to 
every delicate sensibility, and ardent in all of his 
passions, was an easy instrument for the wily 
hypocrite to play upon. Munson knew this ; he 
knew the inexperience of his victim, in regard to 


100 


PAUL REDDING. 


the cunning world, and had heard some of his ex- 
travagant notions of the enchantments of an artist’s 
life ; he knew that the aspirant to art ever looked 
with wistful eyes to Europe, and to Italy in partic- 
ular, as the artist’s paradise. With this ground to 
work upon, how easy to spread out the net that 
would entangle the footsteps of the youth ? And 
Paul, flattered with a thousand dazzling dreams, 
that only youth is heir to, how ready was he to 
walk into the well-planned snare ! He saw in 
imagination all the splendors of Rome and Florence 
rise before him ! The works of Raphael, Titian, 
and all the host of Italian masters were spread in 
long splendid galleries before his eyes, and he 
walked the storied streets of the “ seven hill’d city,” 
lost in admiration of her ruined temples ; or wrap- 
ped in the golden sunlight of his fancy, dreamed on 
the banks of Arno. How enthusiastically did he 
applaud the kindness of Nathaniel Munson, and 
how deeply in his heart did he thank little Edith, 
for he knew that her sweet voice must have had a 
prominent part in persuading her father to this act 
of generosity. Generosity indeed ! ah, poor youth, 
could he have known the pangs of untold grief that 
were rending the bosoms of those who were bound 
to him by the nearest ties of nature, how would he 
have rather cursed than blest that shrivelled fiend, 
the Quaker. Could he have seen poor little Edith, 
sitting apart from all and weeping, those tears 
might have dissolved the chain that was drawing 


PAUL REDDING. 


101 


him on to his dark destiny ! Could he have seen 
poor Mary, struggling with ejaculations of broken 
sentences, and failing to disentangle her words and 
thoughts from the web of her brain, gaze tearfully, 
pityfully, and imploringly into the face of Fitful, as 
if to tell him with her eyes what her brain could 
not shape into language ; could he have seen Fitful 
bending affectionately, like a parent over a little 
child, catching at her words, and combining them 
with her tears, her actions and her countenance, 
and when he had gathered the dreadful meaning 
break into his most fearful state of madness, and 
rush wildly he knew not whither ! Then could he 
have seen that poor woman, sitting with her hands 
clasped on her knees, and her pale, sorrowful face, 
turned to heaven, motionless as a statue 1 his fan- 
tastic dream had vanished like frost-work in the 
sun, and he would have questioned the motives of a 
Stranger’s kindness more closely. 

But what is to save him now ? Fitful is gone ! 
The poor woman sits secluded in her little chamber, 
a more melancholy-looking thing than ever. Little 
Edith, with a swelling, but hopeful, unsuspecting 
heart, has taken leave of Paul, and seen him for 
the last time, as she thinks, for years. Mr. Chris- 
topher Scrapp, after occupying the space of an 
hour, in giving very sage advice about the manner 
of proceeding in a country, of which he knew little 
else than the name, and hinting darkly about certain 
complimentary stanzas, written by the renowned 


102 


PAUL REDDING. 


Ichabod Inkleton, on the occasion of the departure 
of a young friend to Europe, bade adieu to his 
pupil. 

Munson, with a sneaking leer on his countenance, 
and his chin buried very deep in his neck-cloth, 
walked arm in arm with Paul to the vessel, wishing 
him all the way the greatest pleasure imaginable 
in his voyage ; and to Paul’s heart-felt expressions 
of gratitude, the Quaker humbly requested that he 
would not “ mention it .” The captain, who was 
the old man with the iron hook introduced in the 
last chapter, for some reason or other was not 
about the vessel, and had left word that he would 
not be there, until they should be ready to sail, 
which would be on the following morning. Of 
course Paul thought nothing of this, for the captain’s 
absence could be of no possible consequence to 
him. He little guessed that the man with the iron 
hook was fearful jf awakening in the mind of the 
youth some recollections of his childhood, and 
possibly of being recognised as that not very amia- 
ble character, “ Fin.” He surmised wisely for 
himself, since Paul had come to the conclusion that 
the man whom he saw at the restaurateur, on the 
evening of his first arrival in the city, was one and 
the same with that individual of disagreeable mem- 
ory. But the first mate, Munson’s hopeful son, 
was there to play the part of captain ; he, however, 
was not over-officious in doing the honors. As 
Paul scanned his coarse form from head to foot, he 


PAUL REDDING. 


103 


involuntarily exclaimed to himself, “And can this 
fellow, then, really be the own brother of little 
Edith ! he has not even called to see her, or pay her 
any of the attentions that a brother should ! How- 
ever, it is enough that he is her brother, and the 
son of my generous friend, to entitle him to my 
respect.” 

This soliloquy was soon cut short by certain 
startling altercations held between Nathaniel Mun- 
son, Sen., and Nathaniel Munson, Jr., in which the 
latter seemed to have the best of it, as he made no 
hesitation to tell the old gentleman that he was a 
mean, stingy lubber, all of which made Nathaniel 
Munson, Sen., survey his progeny with an air of 
deep satisfaction and pride, as though he would 
challenge the world of fathers to produce such 
another promising son. Munson, Jr., paid no atten- 
tion whatever to Paul ; but after telling his affec- 
tionate parent that he might emigrate to regions 
that would not sound polite in delicate ears to 
name, and there be in the same unpleasant condi- 
tion of those who had gone before him, turned 
suddenly into the cabin. In the event of which, 
Munson, Sen., took a most heart-rending leave of 
Paul, and retraced his steps to the city, whilst the 
young, man' walked the .deck, contemplating the 
scenes in his own brain much more than those 
around him. O, how bright the world appeared 
before him ! not a shadow swept across his mind to 
mar his fair hopes! With five hundred dollars 


104 


PAUL REDDING. 


in his pocket, and the promise of a speedy remit- 
tance, what had he now to fear ? All the world 
was wrapped in a golden halo, and the ocean over 
which he had to cross, seemed but a path of 
pleasure. He walked the deck slowly but proudly ; 
and you, who have achieved suddenly what for long 
years of days and nights you have dreamed of, 
hoping at one time, and at another deeming the 
realization almost an impossibility, or at least far, 
far before you, may appreciate the feelings of the 
youth, how his heart swelled, and his brain throb- 
bed with pleasure ! The evening was coming on, 
and Paul was reminded that that was the last twi- 
light which would gather around him in his own 
native land for months, if not for years, to come. 
He stood gazing at the long row of houses, while 
the tide of darkness tilled up the little alley-ways 
and recesses of whatever description, when he 
observed, at a neighboring corner, a mysterious 
hand beckoning ever and anon, and then the head 
of a female was visible for a moment, but it dodged 
quickly back again. While the arm was still ex- 
tended and beckoning, the head appeared three or 
four times, and the hand moved unceasingly for 
several minutes, before Paul could make up his 
mind to answer the summons ; but at last he stepped 
ashore, and walked toward the woman, who, when 
she saw him coming, retreated slowly; but still 
beckoning him on, until she glided into a very small, 
dark passage, and discovered to the youth, by her 


PAUL REDDING. 


105 


manner and tones of voice, that strange creature, 
“ poor Mary.” Paul knew not what to make of 
this singular interview ; her words were incoherent, 
and she seemed even excited, a state in which he 
had never seen her before. He could understand, 
however, that she said something of Fitful, and 
gathered from her, words something like these : 
“ Fitful — home — go — see — must — must, now, 
to-night ! ” The woman drew her cloak closely 
around her, and passed swiftly on, and Paul, im- 
pelled by his sympathies, not only for her, but for 
the strange man, whose . name she uttered, made 
no hesitation to follow. Having arrived at Fitful’s 
apartment, they found the poor man in the greatest 
state of agony. He was leaning against the wall 
beating the air with his hands ; jbut when he saw 
the youth, he embraced him, and sobbed like a 
child, and then grew gradually calm again, but he 
was not yet what Paul had seen him in his better 
moments. Mary gazed on the two with almost an 
expression of gladness, if, indeed, her sorrowful face 
could at any time assume a different look from its 
habitual one. It was a melancholy sight to see 
those two strange creatures striving to be glad. It 
was a sadder sight as they tried to explain to the 
youth a part of a dreadful secret. The poor 
woman endeavored to communicate her thoughts 
by the wild motions of her hands, and Fitful suc- 
ceeded but little better with the free use of lan- 
guage. But, at last, he gave Paul to understand, 
7 


106 


PAUL REDDING. 


that he must not return to the vessel, but stay where 
he was for that night, at least. The youth, who 
could see no possible reason for such a movement, 
and considered what Fitful had told him about evil 
designs and the like, but the wild fancies of a 
fevered brain, remonstrated somewhat against this 
arrangement, until the other, to satisfy him at once, 
asked him, if he did not remember a dark, ugly 
man, the enemy of his father. 

Paul replied, with no little astonishment, that he 
did remember such a man. 

“And that man’s name,” continued Fitful, “ was 
Fin! ” 

“ In Heaven’s name, how knew you that ? ” cried 
Paul. 

“ No matter,” said Fitful, “ no matter for the 
present ; but be satisfied, and stay where you are, 
when I tell you that that dark man, Fin, is the 
captain of that vessel ! Thank this poor woman, 
who has providentially saved you from the jaws of 
a shark ! Yes, literally a shark ! ” 

“ If such is the fact, I do indeed thank her ! ” 
cried Paul, still lost in amazement. 

“Well, well, sit down,” said Fitful, “sit down, 
and I ’ll explain as much as I can, conveniently, for 
the present ; at least, enough to satisfy you. There- 
fore, sit down, and be calm.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


“ The night goes on. 

Why in the shadow of the mast, 

Stands that dark, thoughtful man alone ? 

Thy pledge, man ; keep it fast ! ” R. H. Daka, 

Beneath the silent arch of midnight falls 
The muffle4 sound of feet that print the dust 
Along the winding highway. 

It was late at night, before Nathaniel Munson 
was informed of the disappearance of the young 
man. He was evidently uneasy. Had the youth 
have disappeared satisfactorily — that is to say, 
forever, all would have been well ; but as it was, 
he had a prophetic feeling, which told him that 
something was going on, not altogether according 
to his wishes. Therefore, he drew his weather- 
beaten, broad-brimmed hat very low over his fore- 
head, plunged into the street, and following his first 
impulse, hurried along to the residence of Fitful. 
Paul had already learnt enough of the villainy of 
the Quaker, to turn the feelings of gratitude and 
respect, that he had hitherto felt for Munson, into 
deep hatred, if not indeed into a spirit of revenge ; 
but there was still a dark mystery involving all. 
He had no reason to doubt the assertions of Fitful, 
of the woman ; nor yet could he understand why 
he should be the object of such infernal plans, as 
the one of which Munson was accused. But he 
had promised Fitful to follow his injunctions for the 


108 


PAUL REDDING. 


present, in lieu of which, Fitful had agreed to dis- 
close to the youth, as soon as practicable, which, 
perhaps would be in a few days, all the circumstances 
of the case, and satisfactory evidences to prove 
them. They had just arrived at this state of affairs, 
when Munson, unceremoniously thrust himself into 
the apartment. Paul felt, for a moment, an uneasy 
twitching in his fingers to grasp the Quaker by the 
white cravat,, and give it a few smart twists, much 
to the discomfort of that shrivelled, lying throat ; 
but he suppressed his feelings, and only gazed on 
the old man with a look of stern defiance and con- 
tempt, which so disconcerted the Quaker that Paul 
felt doubly assured that what he had heard was 
true. The poor woman recoiled with a shudder 
into the farthest corner of the room ; but Fitful, 
with clenched fists and flashing eyes, confronted 
the Quaker, and bade him, if he valued his head, 
to depart. Nathaniel Munson endeavored to look 
bland ; he smiled a grim smile, and observed to the 
young man, paying no attention to the threat, that 
he had better take leave of those good people, and 
without further delay, go on board the vessel, which 
was about to be hauled out into the stream, ready to 
sail early in the morning. 

“ I shall do no such thing ! ” cried Paul. 

“ Thee won’t ? ” ejaculated the Quaker, with 
astonishment. 

“ No, he won’t ! ” thundered Fitful, grasping 
Munson by the collar. 


PAUL REDDING. 


109 


“ He do n’t mean — ” 

“ Yes, he does mean ! ” cried the other, “ he 
does mean to mar your infernal plot ! ” and with 
that, Fitful dragged the Quaker, or rather lifted 
him bodily to the door. 

“ But he ’s got my money ! ” urged the little man. 

“And will keep it ! ” was the answer. 

“ No, no, not keep my money ! ” screamed the 
Quaker. 

“ I say he will keep it, and take that, as my ac- 
knowledgment for the sum ! ” replied Fitful, as he 
thrust Munson down stairs, with an accompanying 
kick. 

“ But T will have my money ! ” cried he, from 
the bottom of the stairs. “ Help ! murder ! help ! 
thieves ! ” Fitful listened till the cry of “ help ! 
murder ! thieves ! ” &c., died away in the distance, 
and then turning to Paul, exclaimed, “ There is no 
time to lose ; I know this old hell-hound too well 
to trust him ; therefore, prepare to leave ; and Mary, 
for a little while longer, betake yourself to this old 
scoundrel’s house, only for a few days more, for 
the girl’s sake ! ” and saying this, he led her to the 
door. Now hurriedly he grasped those two old 
rusty pistols from above the mantel-piece, and 
thrust them into the breast of his coat ; but as he 
was gathering some papers from a private drawer, 
and stuffing them into his pockets, he heard the 
sound of clumsy footsteps on the stairs ; and with- 
out farther delay threw open a window, and bidding 


110 


PAUL REDDING. 


Paul to follow, leapt out on to a shed, in the rear 
of the house and disappeared, just as a couple of 
coarsely cloaked figures, followed by Munson, rushed 
into the apartment. But it was no use ; Fitful and 
Paul were nowhere to be found ; and the Quaker, 
bursting with rage and disappointment, bade his 
myrmidons seize poor Mary, who had loitered at 
the door, and now stood looking on in stupid amaze- 
ment. They laid their coarse hands updn the 
woman and dragged her away. How meejily and 
willingly did she go ! Yes, poor thing, it mattered 
little to her, whether they led her to a palace, or a 
prison ! But where was little Edith, all this time ? 
She was pacing a solitary apartment in the house 
of Nathaniel Munson, altogether unconscious of 
what had taken place. She little dreamed that 
Paul was not ensconced on board the ship ready to 
depart ; no, she almost sighed to think that such 
was the case, and then reproached herself for 
having a wish that would deprive him of so much 
pleasure. She wondered what could detain poor 
Mary so long, it was past eleven o’clock, and she 
was not accustomed to keep such late hours ! Vex 
not thy sweet brain, dear Edith, get thee to thy 
quiet pillow, while yet it invites thee ; let there be 
one to-night who shall sleep untroubled ! Let us 
look for a moment to Fin ; he is walking the deck 
of his vessel, uttering strange words, and curses 
mingled with fits of jeering laughter. But where- 
fore should he curse ? he is thinking that a beard- 


PAUL REDDING. 


Ill 


less victim hath slipped from his hands, carrying in 
his possession five hundred dollars ! And the iron- 
armed captain laughs, for he carries as great a 
sum of the Quaker’s money in his own pocket, 
which he has not had the trouble of earning, and 
which the Quaker may not again easily reclaim. 
Thus the evil man may laugh and curse alternately ! 

Fitful and the youth threaded the quiet streets of 
the Quaker city, and passed unmolestedly over the 
long bridge that crosses the Schuylkill. Now, 
having gained the open country, they could walk 
more leisurely, and mature their plans. Fitful’s 
pace was quick and nervous, so much sp, that Paul 
with difficulty, at times, maintained his place at the 
side of his companion. The night was clear and 
still ; it was just such an hour as suited well the 
romantic feelings of the youth ; but, under the 
present circumstances, his brain whirling with the 
excitement of surprises not yet explained, he saw 
not, felt not, and cared not for surrounding objects, 
so long as he felt assured of his companion’s and 
his own safety. The stars above him seemed 
dizzy, and the shadowy hills rolled like the billows 
of ocean away, and others rose to view as they 
passed hurriedly over the uneven road. The mile- 
stones, grim and ghostlike, one after one greeted 
them through the long, silent night, and the pedes- 
trians, like two shadows moulded from the sur- 
rounding darkness, passed unnoticed over the dusty 
white turnpike. Daylight found them far on their 


112 


PAUL REDDING. 


way; and, at ten o’clock, the long line of white 
houses that constitute the pleasant village men- 
tioned in the early part of our story, greeted their 
sight, to the no little gratification of both parties. 
They were fatigued, bodily, with their march, and 
mentally, by anxiety and the late occurrences. 
Therefore they gladly hailed the old swinging sign- 
board of the “ Half-way House.” Numerous 
wagons of every description filled up the stable 
yard, and occupied the space before the inn door. 
A crowd of people were moving back and forth 
from the bar-room to the porch, some laughing, 
some swearing, others boasting and bargaining, 
and* not a few calling out in the most uproarious 
manner for liquor. Dutch, Irish, and English, and 
bad enough English at that, made a most unintelli- 
gible and unharmonious compound of human voices. 
Paul and his companion elbowed their way into the 
bar-room, without much difficulty, since even the 
bravest, (which means, when speaking of such 
people, the strongest, as a matter of course,) even 
the stoutest fell instinctively back to make a pas- 
sage for that strange man whom they all had seen 
or heard of before, and who, they verily believed, 
was the devil himself, or one nearly connected with 
his sooty majesty. 

Mr. Samuel Spatter, encircled by a crowd at 
one end of the porch, related how he had seen that 
same strange individual under very suspicious cir- 
cumstances. How he (the mysterious man) had 


PAUL REDDING. 


113 


walked one night, during a thunder storm, into that 
same bar-room, filling the place with a strong smell 
of sulphur ; and how he (Mr. Spatter) saw some- 
thing very much resembling a horn sticking through 
a hole in the old man’s beaver ; and he was not 
quite certain, but thought that he saw the devil’s 
tail switching about from beneath the skirts of the 
stranger’s long overcoat. This dreadful intelli- 
gence sent a thrill of awe through the gaping 
crowd, and served not a little to make the distance 
that they maintained between themselves and 
Fitful, very respectful. The more superstitious 
members of the company were suddenly reminded 
of all the mysterious things they had seen and 
heard of during their life, and, on comparing notes, 
concluded that the stranger was the agent of them 
all. One big, bony, half Dutchman, related how 
he was sitting at his door one evening just at twi- 
light, and how all at once he saw, a big black ball 
roll round and round in the yard, and how he ran 
and got his gun and shot at it, but at that very in- 
stant it vanished in a cloud of dust ; and how just 
then he saw this same dark man dash wildly down 
through the orchard and disappear behind a big 
tree ; and when he (the Dutchman) ran up to the 
place he only found a dead ’possum ; but conclud- 
ing that it was a bait left there by the devil, he 
did n’t dare to touch it, but went to the same place, 
the next morning, and it was gone ! The latter 
circumstance placed his suspicions beyond a doubt ! 


114 


PAUL REDDING. 


All this made a confusion that Paul could not 
well understand; nor did the figure of the little 
host, seated upon the top of an old rusty beer- 
barrel, “ beating time to nothing ” with his heels 
against the sides of the cask, serve to explain the 
mystery. When he beheld the young man ap- 
proaching, he shook his head in a most melancholy 
manner, as much as to say it could n’t be helped, 
then cast his eyes again to the floor, and heaved a 
long sigh that ended with, “ Ah, mine Got ! mine 
Got!” 

“ What ’s the matter, my good friend ? ” said 
Paul, laying his hand on the Dutchman’s shoulder. 

“ Go vay, go vay ! ” sighed the landlord ; “ der 
aint no Half-way House no more- — der aint no 
Gotlieb Speckuncrout no more, der aint ! No, no ! 
all going, going, gone ! to der tivel ! ” 

“ But tell me,” cried the youth, “ what does all 
this mean ? ” 

“Veil, veil, suppose it doesn’t mean notting ! 
All I got to say is, der Half-way House is going to 

der tivel and pe ” he swallowed the last word, 

but expressed his meaning by dealing a very severe 
kick on the side of the cask. 

Mr. Spatter, where he found that any information 
was wanted, kindly tendered his services, and SQon 
explained to Paul the whole mystery. How that 
Captain Cutlass, the warlike gentleman, had come 
very near fighting a duel with the Hon. Timothy 
Littleworth, and how that he was only appeased in 


PAUL REDDING. 


115 


his wrath by the loan of two hundred dollars from 
the honorable gentleman, and how that Mynheer 
Speckuncrout, like a darned fool, as he was, had, 
at Mr. Littleworth’s suggestion, gone security for 
the amount. That the warlike gentleman turned 
out to be a great rascal, just as he (Mr.. Spatter) 
had said he would, although he did n’t remember 
under what circumstances he made the remark ; 
but that was no matter ; he knew that he had said 
it somewhere to somebody, and his prophecy had 
come true, as usual. He went on to say that when 
some handbills appeared, offering a reward for a 
certain notorious swindler, the captain very sud- 
denly disappeared, and emigrated to parts un- 
known. Consequently, Mr. Littleworth, knowing 
Mynheer to be a political opponent, pounced down 
upon him for the money ; which the landlord was 
not able to pay just at the time, since he himself 
had been fleeced of all of his ready cash by the 
same military gentleman. The consequence of 
which was, Mynheer Speckuncrout was about to be 
sold out at vendue by the constable. 

At the conclusion of this piece of intelligence, 
Fitful and Paul held some conversation apart, in 
which the latter seemed to make some proposals 
that met with the approbation of the former; then 
stepping up to the landlord, he whispered some- 
thing in the Dutchman’s ear that made him open 
his eyes and mouth very wide ; and, on hearing the 
same thing repeated, he jumped down from the top 


116 


PAUL REDDING. 


of the barrel, and snatching his little red cap from 
off his little bald head, threw it with great disre- 
spect at the form of the Hon. Timothy Littleworth, 
(who had just entered the bar-room and was stand- 
ing in Napoleon’s battle attitude,) and then, in a 
delirium of pleasure, threw his arms around Paul 
and embraced him ; then went through the same 
operation with Mr. Spatter, and his joy knew no 
bounds till he found that he was embracing Fitful ! 
The cause of this strange proceeding was only 
explained when Paul drew from his pocket the 
money that the Quaker had furnished him, and 
passed the necessary sum, two hundred dollars, 
into the hands of Gotlieb Speckuncrout, who, with 
an air of unbounded triumph, paid the amount over 
to the astonished prosecutor, and requested that the 
company would call for what they pleased to 
drink ! That was a great day at the Half-way 
House ! When the landlord found that Fitful was 
Paul’s friend, he no longer held him in dread, but 
placed him in estimation next to the youth. Every 
delicacy that the place could afford was thrust 
before these two wayworn travellers ; and the best 
bed in the house was at their disposal, which, 
perhaps, was the most welcome of any thing that 
the grateful host could have furnished. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


“ Amen ! 

To the desolate mourner’s prayer, 

In the palace or prison-cell ; 

Let thine answering mercy tell, 

Thou, God ! art there ! 

Amen ! ” 

Doganne. 

Paul had enjoyed for several hours a refreshing 
sleep, and he awoke in the afternoon feeling quite 
renewed again. Fitful, strange to say, had not 
slept, but had occupied the time in writing ; and 
now, just as the youth awoke, he was adding the 
superscription to a long letter that he had just 
finished. “ Come, Paul,” said he, “ we have yet 
some miles to walk; it is time that we were on 
our way.” 

“ To what place do you intend going to-night ? ” 
inquired the youth. 

“ To one that you are already familiar with,” 
was the answer. “ A few hours hence, boy, and 
you will know all that you may even wish to know 
about this mystery ; more, perhaps, than you ought 
to know for your own happiness. But come, the 
sun is yet two hours high ; ere it sets, our destina- 
tion may be gained.” 

In a few minutes the two travellers were again 
on their way. They turned their course up the 
banks of the Brandywine river, and passing under 
the groves of old chestnut and sycamore trees, 


118 


PAUL REDDING. 


soon lost sight of the village, and were surrounded 
by the murmuring of the water, the singing of 
birds, and the oblique rays of golden sunlight, that 
slid through the rustling leaves to light the wood- 
land path. Paul became not a little concerned to 
find his companion relapsing into his wild state. 
When a squirrel dropped his nut to the ground, and 
leapt away among the tall branches, Fitful would 
start aside with a shudder.; and when a dead limb 
fell beside them, crackling on the ground, he grasp- 
ed the arm of the youth and darted furiously from 
the woods. But in a short time, they stood on the 
spot where Paul first encountered the strange man ; 
and the sun was now just dropping behind the dis- 
tant blue hills. 

“There!” cried Fitful, “you hear the river, 
boiling and fretting, but cannot see it from here — 
you see the long dark line of trees that cover its 
banks — listen how it moans ! Do you hear it ? 
Then let me tell you, Paul, there are streams of 
guilt in the world, that, however they may lie 
concealed beneath familiar things, and run through 
hidden ways, still have a voice which cannot be 
stifled ! See yonder ! how high yon fish-hawk 
sails; a dim speck, it would almost emulate the 
stars ! but let me tell you, Paul, to-day that bird 
has sunk lower, amid the turmoil of that dark 
stream that flows yonder, than thousands of the 
winged tribe that soar not so high! Remember 
that, Paul, remember that!” Thus saying, he 


PAUL REDDING. 


119 


turned to the old apple-tree, described in our first 
chapter, and exclaimed, “ Here, Paul Redding, on 
this spot will I deliver to you that which is your 
own ; and let the dead witness that no man is 
wronged ! ” and he drew from the breast of his 
coat a package of papers, and handed them to 
the youth. “ Here,” said he, taking the letter 
that he had that day written, from his pocket, 
“here, Paul, take this; when I am — no — that is, 
I mean, to-morrow, send that to the place where it 
is directed to — not before — not after; but to- 
morrow. As to that package, it is yours ; read it 
when you please, sooner or later ; all, all is there ! 
I have done all — done my best. God forgive me 
for having once in my life, done my worst ! You 
will forgive me,” continued he, grasping the youth 
by the hand, “ you will forgive me, will you not?” 

“ Indeed,” answered Paul, “ I know not of any 
thing you have done that requires my forgiveness.” 

“True, my dear boy, true! but. you soon will 
know, you soon must know, therefore, forgive me ; 
for the love of — of Heaven, let me have your 
forgiveness ! ” 

“ Most heartily I give it ! ” cried Paul, “ let it be 
for what it may ! ” and tears dimmed the eyes of 
both. “ Come,” said Fitful, “ it has grown quite 
dark, follow me to yon old stone mansion. There 
we may rest to-night. You will find a bed in an 
upper chamber, although no living soul occupies 
the dwelling ; but that is no matter ; it has been 


120 


PAUL REDDING. 


my place of retreat for years, no other has occu- 
pied it for many a day ; therefore it will be a fitting 
place for us to-night.” When they arrived at the 
house, Fitful took from his pocket a big rusty 
key, /and turning it with difficulty in the lock, 
threw the heavy door back on its grating hinges. 
As they passed into a large old-fashioned and 
empty room, their footfalls ran echoing over the 
building, as if they were messengers sent to the 
remotest apartments to tell of the arrival of the two 
guests. Fitful lighted an old, brass lamp, that stood 
on the mantle-piece, and led the youth up the dusty, 
creaking stairway. “ There,” said he, as he stood 
at the top of the first flight of stairs, “ there, that 
will be my room to-night, yours is one story high- 
er;” and they passed up into a small chamber, 
furnished with a bed and a couple of old chairs. 
There hung on the walls two portraits, in very an- 
tique-looking frames. Paul was struck with the 
pictures, and he stood before them for some time, 
contemplating the countenances, which were those 
of a young man and woman. Those quiet eyes, as 
they looked down into his, seemed to read his very 
soul, and the youth recalled in his mind, uncon- 
sciously, scenes long since gone by. He turned to 
inquire of his companion who they were the por- 
traits of, and for the first time, found he was alone ! 
He stood for awhile lost in amazement, but his 
gaze rested again on those quiet familiar faces, un- 
til overwhelmed with a flood of recollections, he 


PAUL REDDING. 


121 


reeled to the bed, and sunk upon its edge, whilst 
the tears streamed from his burning eyes. Old 
scenes swept through his brain, like the sunlight 
and shadow that play over distant fields; scenes 
wherein moved the forms of his father and mother, 
and as he gazed on them with his “ mind’s eye,” 
they seemed to be the originals of those two pic- 
tures ! Thus he laid wrapped in a dreamy maze 
of the past, he knew not how long ; but when he 
looked up, the broad moon was looking in upon 
him with a brilliancy that almost drowned the faint 
glimmering of the lamp, and as its white rays 
gleamed over the faces of the paintings, divesting 
them of all color, Paul shrunk back with a shudder, 
for he thought he saw “ Poor Mary’s ” ghost ! But 
he soon upbraided himself for his timidity, and 
drawing the package that Fitful had given him 
from his pocket, laid it on the table by the lamp, 
intending to seize the present opportunity to solve 
the mystery that had thus gathered its strange web 
about him. But feeling some misgivings in regard 
to the safety of his companion, he passed cautiously 
down stairs, and opening the chamber door as 
softly as possible, looked in. He beheld Fitful 
kneeling in the flood of white moonshine that 
streamed across the floor, muttering most un- 
couth words, while he scraped on the hard oak 
floor with the blade of a knife. “ This is a die for 
the conscience,” he murmured ; “ purple is a royal 
color, and the oak is monarch of the woods ! who 
8 


122 


PAUL REDDING. 


may divest the king of his robes ? ” Again he 
scraped on in silence for a few minutes, but his 
wild thoughts soon burst forth in utterance. “ What ! 
shall I write a book that I cannot unwrite ? O, 
what a chronicle is here! Did the world under- 
stand the alphabet to these hieroglyphics, what a 
tale would here be unfolded ! ” 

Paul, fearful of being observed by the wild man, 
retreated again to his chamber, but sat hour after 
hour listening to the sound of the scraping knife ; 
for while he could hear that, he felt, in a degree, 
at ease, since the noise told him that Fitful was still 
safe in his room. The moon was now no longer 
looking in at the window ; the lamp was burning 
low ; he was reminded that he had not yet exam- 
ined the package ; and pricking up the wick of the 
lamp with the point of a knife, he examined the 
papers, and the first thing that attracted his par- 
ticular attention was a letter addressed to himself. 
He opened it and read : 

“ My Dear Boy : 

“You have been a wanderer in the world; so have 
I. Wherever you have been, there have I been, 
also. I have been near you a thousand times 
when you little guessed it. But all that is passed. 
The time has arrived. Enclosed among these 
papers you will find that which will make you 
independent of the world. The property is mostly 


PAUL REDDING. 


123 


yours ; but you are not alone ; there are those who 
will be dependent upon you; fail not to do your 
duty by them — love them as you should love those 
nearest and dearest to you. This letter is only to 
prepare you for the perusal of others of deeper 
importance ; you will find them all at your com- 
mand, and as you read them, O, curse me not ! 
but weep that humanity should fall so far; then 
pray that God may cleanse the blood-stained soul, 
and forgive, (yes, Paul, it is true ! ) your dying 
father ! John Redding.” 

This is a disclosure that the reader, as a matter 
of course, has been prepared for; and, in fact, so 
had Paul, at times, but not at that moment, when 
his nerves were torn with excitement, and his brain 
dizzy with fears and conjectures ! He reeled and 
staggered, but recovered himself, and his first im- 
pulse was to rush down stairs and throw himself 
into the arms of his father. The stairs were 
passed, he knew not how ; he burst into the 
chamber, but it was vacant! Fitful was gone! 
O, how wildly, how madly did Paul traverse every 
apartment of that dark, dismal house, calling on 
the name of his father ! Now, rushing out into the 
chill morning air, he hurried to the woods, ran up 
and down by the river side ; nor did he cease his 
search until he had alarmed the neighbors, and 


124 


PAUL REDDING. 


called several of them to his assistance. The red 
morn was already in the east, and the broad day- 
light soon came up to the aid of the distracted son. 
The company, after a vigilant search, met on the 
brow of the hill not far from where Paul had first 
seen Fitful ; disappointment was on every counte- 
nance, and Paul’s heart sunk within him as they 
shook their heads, indicating that their labor had 
been in vain. 

“ Halloa ! ” cried one who had wandered some- 
what apart from the rest, “ halloa ! he ’s here ! ” 
With a cry of “ where ? where ? ” the young man 
darted in the direction which the other pointed, 
and beheld his father kneeling, with his head rest- 
ing on the stone, beneath the old apple-tree ! The 
sun was just sending his first rays over the top of 
the hill as they lifted the old man up ; there was a 
quiver on his lips, aud his glazed eye turned to 
heaven, while he feebly cried, “ God forgive me!” 
and sunk lifeless into the arms of his son ! 


CHAPTER XV. 

The grated jail wherein are pent, 

The guilty and the innocent. 

Aworr. 

Let us retrace our steps; let us walk again 
amidst that sea of hearts, the city. It is midnight. 
How solitary are the streets. The houses stand, 


PAUL REDDING. 


125 


like a certain class of mankind, with their souls 
shut up in them, and their iron arms laid across 
their breasts as if to say, “ we have tender feelings, 
we do sympathize with poor suffering mortals — yes 
— we feel it here.” That is, they feel it safe within, 
and there they mean to keep it. In traversing the 
streets of a city at midnight, when the lamps are 
burning very dim, the stars very clear, and the 
watchmen are very scarce, what odd fancies crowd 
upon the brain. At such an hour it seems as 
though the houses had taken the town, devoured 
the inhabitants, and now stood in the most perfect 
regimental order, ready to “forward, march,” as 
soon as their old commander, the State House, 
should give the word. Did we say that odd fancies 
came at such an hour ? They are gone. Yonder 
is the prison ; fancy flies like a bird before such 
dreadful realities as are suggested by yon iron- 
beaked cormorant. There she stands watching by 
the sea of misfortune, waiting impatiently to catch 
whatsoever the waves may cast up. The darkest 
billow of that ocean has burst at the prison foot, 
and its burden is poor Mary. The keys are grating 
in the iron locks, the doors swing heavily on their 
hinges, and rude hands thrust the poor creature 
forward — forward into the darkness. She reels 
against the wall and sinks upon the hard oaken 
seat ; while her eyes, like those of a little child, 
turn instinctively their steady gaze toward the 
dim ray of light that flickers through the grating 


126 


PAUL REDDING. 


from a neighboring lamp. There she shall rest 
to-night. Where is Edith ? still is she pacing that 
little apartment. She hears every approaching 
footfall ; stands breathless to listen ; but the night- 
walker passes on. The watchman’s cry startles 
her with a shudder — “ past one o’clock ! ” Again 
and again has she put on her bonnet, and wrapped 
a shawl about her shoulders ; but the night is dark 
and still, fearfully still, and she shrinks back afraid. 
But soon she hears a noise at the street door ; her 
heart leaps for joy; perhaps ’t is Mary returned! 
The maiden grasps the lamp and hurries down, 
to encounter the fierce, scowling countenance of 
Munson. 

“ O, I ’m so glad ! ” exclaimed Edith, scarcely 
knowing what she said, “ where is Mary? ” 

“ Where she should be ! ” growled the Quaker, 
between his teeth. 

“ Do tell me, where ? where? ” said the girl, in 
the most supplicating manner. 

“ Out of my way,” cried Munson, lifting his 
clenched fist; “ out of my way, or I ’ll strike thee ! ” 
Edith in her terror, dropped the lamp to the floor, 
and the miser and the maiden were both deluged 
in darkness. 

“What did thee do that for?” screamed the 
Quaker, as he hurried up the stairway ; she made 
no answer, but stood paralyzed on the spot. 

“ Halloa ! ” cried the Quaker again, from the 
top of the second flight of stairs. “ Edith, thee jade, 


PAUL REDDING. 


127 


bring me a light ! ” The poor girl hurried away 
for another lamp, but long before she found one, 
Munson screamed out again, 

“ Bring me a light, I say, a light ! I ’ll not stay 
here in the dark ! ” But the fire was out, the 
matches misplaced, and no light appeared. 

“ I ’ll not stay in the dark ! ” cried the old man 
again, “ to play with devils and ghosts ! no ! no ! ” 
And rushing down stairs he fled through the entry, 
and the front door slammed loudly at his back. 

Edith sought her chamber again, and flinging 
herself on the bed, wept all night. The morning 
came and brought with it nothing welcome but the 
light. Again she put on her bonnet and shawl, and 
now hurried out into the streets. Hopes and fears 
nerved her step ; and with a loud beating heart she 
sought Fitful’s chamber ; the door was open, she 
passed in, but the room was vacant ! There were 
papers strewed over the floor, the little table and 
chairs were upset, the brass clock that of late ticked 
so mournfully on the mantel-piece now lay broken 
on the hearth ; all of which were marks of the 
cowardly Quaker’s malice. Poor little Edith stood 
in the midst of this confusion, and covering her 
face in her hands, wept afresh. 

“What! must I encounter the fiends every- 
where ? ” screamed a shrill voice at her back ; 
Edith started with affright, and beheld again the 
bloodshot eyes of Munson glaring upon her. His 
eyebrows were clenched, a malicious smile was 


128 


PAUL REDDING. 


playing around his mouth, and his skinny fingers 
were working nervously against his thumbs. 

“ O, my father ! ” cried Edith, falling upon her 
knees and clasping her hands in the most imploring 
manner, “ Tell me ! tell me ! what is the matter ? 
where is Mary ? ” Old Munson dropped his chin 
deep into his neck-cloth, and gazing down into the 
sorrowful face of the maiden, laughed hideously. 

“ Please — father — father ! ” continued Edith, 
whilst the tears streamed down her pale face. 

“ I ’m not your father ! ” cried the Quaker, 
laughing more maliciously than ever. “I’m not 
your father, I never was ! ha, ha ! You ’re a 
beggar, an outcast! You belong to the poor- 
house; go home, go where you belong, to the 
poor-house ! he, he ! ” 

At the end of this unfeeling speech, Edith hid 
her face in her hands, and remained in that attitude 
for a long time, overwhelmed with confusion, grief, 
and disappointment. When, with timid eyes, she 
ventured to look up, she found herself alone. Yes, 
she thought, alone in every sense of the word — 
poor Mary had disappeared in the most mysterious 
manner, and her father would no longer acknowl- 
edge her. Now cast off, whither should she go ? 
The last words of Munson still rung in her ear like a 
funeral knell; — “ the poor-house ! the poor-house ! ” 
and drawing a chair to the window, she sat gaz- 
ing, she knew not how long, upon the quiet sky. 
Hour after hour swept away, but she knew it not, 


PAUL REDDING. 


129 


and she was only awakened from her melancholy 
reverie by feeling the pressure of a hand upon her 
shoulder. There was something sympathetic in 
the touch ; her heart leaped, and gladness thrilled 
her frame ere she well knew why ; but an instant 
more found her arms encircling the neck of poor 
Mary ! The woman returned the impassioned 
caress of the girl, and Edith felt once more that 
she was not an outcast — that there was still one 
heart that cherished her. Poor Mary, with a 
dozen others, had been arraigned, that morning, 
before the police couft, but no accuser appearing 
against her she was released, and her first impulse 
was to return to Fitful’s apartment, where she 
happily discovered Edith, as we have just described. 
When the latter had related, as well as she could 
between sobs and tears, her father’s cruel treat- 
ment, the other heaved a heavy sigh r .and kissing 
Edith on the brow, drew the maiden’s little hand 
through her own arm and led her away. Th*ir 
steps were directed to the house of Munson, which, 
fortunately for their own quietude, they found did 
not contain its master. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


How rapidly they pass 

To the grave ! 

The good, the bad, alas, 

How thoughtlessly go all, 

Like guests to a banquet-hall, 

How rapidly they pass 

To the grave ! 

After Paul’s first burst of grief had in some 
degree subsided, the neighbors held a conference 
with him, in regard to the disposal of Fitful’s body. 
He determined to have it interred beneath the old 
apple-tree, and to have a fence built about it for 
protection, which was accordingly done ; but in 
removing the big stone, already mentioned, the 
laborers were terrified at the appearance of a 
skeleton ! The circumstance was made known to 
the young man, who, although somewhat astonished 
at first, at last concluded that he could solve the 
mystery, but without communicating any of his 
surmises to those about him, ordered another coffin 
to be made for the reception of the disinterred 
bones. As he contemplated this circumstance, it 
was evident to his mind, that the skeleton had 
something to do with the mysteries explained in 
the papers that Fitful had given him, and as he 
remembered those dreadful disclosures, the injunc- 
tions of his father, in regard to the letter which he 
had written at the Half-way House, flashed upon 


PAUL REDDING. 


131 


him. Therefore he immediately sent it off in time 
for the mail. This being done, he sat down, and 
as calmly as possible perused again more carefully 
the papers that Fitful had given him. His late 
grief had so overwhelmed him, that a new disclosure 
scarcely produced any visible change in his feelings 
or countenance. He found that he was heir to a 
large estate, which Nathaniel Munson had managed 
thus far to keep from him ; the Quaker’s power to 
trample a family down into the very dust, was thus 
accounted for. John Redding, otherwise called 
Fiery Fitful, and Nathaniel Munson, had married 
two sisters, the only children of a rich old farmer, 
who had occupied the mansion on the banks of the 
Brandywine, a place already described. 

Munson, for some reason or other, had incurred 
the dislike of his father-in-law, and finding him not 
only likely to live to a good old age, if left to die a 
natural death, but also likely to cut him off in his 
will, therefore he formed a plot, which was ma- 
tured and executed in the following manner. 
Having bribed the cut-throat fellow, that has already 
been presented to the reader in the character of a 
sea captain, his next plan was to get his brother-in- 
law under the influence of brandy, (a thing in those 
anti-temperance days not hard to accomplish,) and 
then excite him to rage against the old man, and in 
that state couple him with Fin, and send the drunk- 
en man and the villain to accomplish the designs 
of a base coward. Thus were his plans matured, 


132 


PAUL REDDING. 


gnd thus were they accomplished ! John Redding 
was a murderer, and ever after that, not only was 
he borne down by the weight on his conscience, 
but was entangled in the web that that wily villain, 
the Quaker, had thrown around him. He dared 
not dispute whatever claims Munson was inclined 
to present ; thus all that had ever been his and his 
family’s, with the exception of the smallest possible 
amount to subsist on, went into the coffers of the 
miser. Paul read this part of the story calmly ; 
but with a deep determination that, not only Mun- 
son, but Fin, his accomplice, should be brought to 
answer for their share in the crime. Only once 
did the mingled feelings of revenge, surprise, and 
pleasure, gain any outward manifestations ; it was 
when he learnt that “ poor Mary,” Munson’s house- 
keeper, was his own mother ! and that little Edith 
Munson, as he had been used to call her, was his 
own sister ! O, what a torrent of feelings had 
torn his breast in the short space of three days ! 
In that time he had embarked, as he thought, for 
Italy ; had been saved, as Fitful said, literally from 
the jaws of a shark ; had walked many miles be- 
neath the silent stars ; had saved his benefactor, 
the landlord, from ruin ; had no sooner found a 
father than he lost him ; had come into a large 
fortune ; and, what was best of all, had found a 
mother and sister to enjoy it with him ! As soon 
as he saw his father interred with the proper cere- 
monies, he hastened to the city to embrace those 


PAUL REDDING. 


133 


nearest and dearest to him, and to carry out his 
plans in regard to Munson and Fin. But when he 
arrived in town, he found to his no little surprise, 
that the Quaker, and the sea captain with his crew, 
had already been seized, through the instrumentality 
of the letter which his father had written. With 
what feelings of grief and pleasure did he fly to the 
arms of his mother and sister ! Edith wept for 
sorrow at the news of the death of her father, and 
wept for joy, as she clasped the neck of her only 
brother, and for the first time embraced “ poor 
Mary,” as her real mother ! By degrees, and 
under the kind attentions of Edith and Paul, Mary 
recovered so far as to be a comfort to those about 
her, and enjoy the caresses of her two children, 
who were ever anxious to administer to her wants 
and enjoyment^. 

But let us look back a little ; let us see how the 
fiend and originator of the sorrow which we have 
had occasion to witness, tottered to his fall. Mun- 
son no sooner learned that the authorities had seized 
Fin and his crew, than he suddenly disappeared 
from the eyes of all. No one guessed of his where- 
abouts. But we will penetrate his retreat. High up 
in that dark, little room, where, but a few flights 
since, we saw him closeted with his accomplice, 
Fin, had he slunk unseen away, like the hunted 
fox. Crouched up on the old iron-bound chest, he 
sat with his feet under him, his elbows on his knees, 
and his face resting in his skinny hands. Now 


134 


PAUL REDDING. 


swaying back and forth, as if to lull his growing 
fears to rest ; now starting convulsively, and glaring 
wildly at the door, whenever a sound met his ear ; 
and again uttering the most fearful curses, he 
would clutch his fingers madly together, until the 
long sharp nails penetrated his own shrivelled 
cheeks. Thus with his brain burning, his eyes dry 
and hot, his mouth parched, did he sit crouched upon 
that old chest from morning until night. But, O, 
the night ! The black night, that brought with it 
all the terrors of imagination, together with the 
fears of -dreadful realities ! O night ! what a 
scourge hast thou for the evil conscience ! Day- 
light, with her living, searching, acting officers of 
justice, hath not the thousandth part of the horrors 
of thy dark silence ! Munson dared not crawl 
forth from his retreat ; he saw in imagination myr- 
midons of the iron-handed law, waiting at every 
turn and corner. The darkness came, and the 
Quaker dared not look into it, he shut his eyes and 
covered them with his hands. But closed eyelids 
and hands were not enough ; his fears saw through 
all these ; and he beheld the white ghost of his 
father-in-law peering iqto his face. Again he saw 
a figure swinging from a gallows, whirling and 
swaying listlessly in the winds ; cold lips whispered 
in his ear, “Behold thyself!” And the Quaker, 
bursting with terror, sprung forward, with his face 
downwards, on to the floor. The night passed 
away ; and the morning found the officers searching 


PAUL REDDING. 


135 


the dwelling of Nathaniel Munson. Passing from 
room to room as they ascended the stairs, they 
were at last brought to the place of the Quaker’s 
concealment. Once, twice, and thrice did they 
knock, but no answer came, and they burst the 
door. The old man, trembling, pale and haggard, 
sat in the middle of the floor, and gazed wildly at 
the men as they entered. They approached him ; 
he gasped and gasped, as if for breath to scream, 
but could not ; then, being too exhausted to rise, 
with his hands and feet, he crawled backwards into 
the farthest and darkest corner of the room, his 
whole frame shivering as with the ague, his fallen 
underjaw quivering, his thin hair strewed wildly 
about his face, and his red eyes starting from their 
sockets ! Such was the wreck of humanity which 
on that day was incarcerated within cold stone 
walls and iron gratings. Such was Nathaniel 
Munson, the Quaker ! 

Fin and his crew had been seized as pirates, and 
Munson as one who was concerned in getting the 
spoils of the traffic without dipping his own hands 
in blood ; but believing that he was to be tried both 
for the murder of his father-in-law, and as a spec- 
ulator in piracies, and hearing that his own son had 
turned state’s evidence, he resolved to anticipate 
the law, and was found, one morning, suspended to 
the grating of his cell by his neck handkerchief ; he 
was dead. Fin was executed on Bush hill, and the 
most of his crew were sent to the State prison, 


136 


PAUL REDDING. 


many of them for life ; where, in the course of time, 
Captain Cutlass, the warlike gentleman, also was 
lodged for safe keeping, notwithstanding he pro- 
tested that his preference was in favor of the king’s 
service. Mr. Ichabod Inkleton, in the course of a 
few years, died with a severe fit of the “ delirium 
tremens ,” which served as a timely warning to his 
friend, Mr. Christopher Scrapp, who, we believe, is 
to this day engaged in the innocent amusement of 
drawing what he fondly considers very severe 
satires on the “ opposite party.” The Hon. Timo- 
thy Littleworth, a very pussy old man, still persists 
in the belief that he resembles Napoleon, and 
when he has been engaged in a warfare with his 
bigger half, and gets the worst of the bargain, and 
is banished from the house, as is always sure to be 
the case, he finds a<sufficient revenge in calling his 
wife “the Duke of Wellington,” and himself 
Bonaparte, the great, but unfortunate emperor. 

And now that we have gathered together the 
loose threads of our story, in the poetic language 
of Sands, we exclaim, 

“ Good-night to all the world ! there ’s none 
Beneath the overgoing sun, 

To whom I feel or hate or spite, — 

And so to all a fair good-night ! ” 


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